Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I.

In the end, it was the rain. 

Black and gray clouds had gathered at some point during this dark, oppressing day and they had, ultimately, given way to unimaginable amounts of water that now came down pouring. A late summer storm. Heavy rain. 

The water was dripping mercilessly into his armor and soaking through his cotton clothes. It was cold, he noticed as he shivered, drops gathering at the tips of his long hair and running in pathways down his face. It got to his bones - the cold, the wet. His own breath tingled on his lips and he was thinking that the middle finger of his left hand might be broken. And yet he was still gripping the katana like his life depended on it. And it did. 

He was exhausted, he felt it deep down. The fight had been going on for hours, his chakra levels were depleted and he knew that he wouldn’t last much longer. The space was clear and vacant of life - the jutsus cast prior had made sure of that. His feet and ankles were sinking into the wet mud and the grip on the katana’s handle got slippery. There was blood on his hands even the heavy rain couldn’t wash away - blood under his fingernails, caked and dark. Was it his own? Was it Uchiha blood? He could smell it, the metallic, sharp scent of life on his hands: of life that he had taken. It made him nauseous. 

It was getting dark, the heavy clouds accelerating the process - it shouldn’t have been this dark already, at this time of the year, but it was oddly fitting for this day. The rain made it difficult to see, white, long strands obstructing his sight like a curtain and he could only guess where the enemies were. Where the Uchiha were.

Yes, in the end, it was the rain. The rain that pushed him over the edge: as he was standing there in the cold, the water running down his body, his clothes clinging wetly to his form. Drenched, tired, defeated in spirit. Injured, likely. He always had difficulty identifying people, he wasn’t a talented sensor, unlike his brother. But Madara’s chakra he’d recognize anywhere.

He saw him, across the bare and hollow field - covered only and terribly, horribly, with the bodies of Senju, of Uchiha. Madara’s figure was as prideful and strong as it always was. A flame, a fire that never seized in its strength and might. A conflagration tearing down and burning to a crisp everything that dared to stand in its path. And for a split second Hashirama thought that perhaps he would lose this fight if it continued. That he would find his end here, on this muddy battlefield, in the heavy rain. Like many Senju had before him. Like his brothers had before him.

But this couldn’t be the present. And it certainly couldn’t be the future. He lowered his katana.

“Madara!” His yell was desperate, a plea. “ This has to end, don’t you see? All this blood! For nothing! We can end this!” 

There was no answer, at least none that Hashirama could hear. The air only filled with the murmur of the resistant rain, dripping into puddles and echoing off of the armor of fallen shinobi. Crows had already gathered in the sky, greedily flying circles of death around the field - a few brave ones had already landed on the outskirts, beady eyes calculating, beaks hungry for flesh. 

"Don't you see?!"  His voice had lost its composure. How could he have kept it, in this field of death? He didn’t even know where his brother was, only able to trust in his skills that he should still be alive - he never saw the open battlefield anyway. 

But it was never a guarantee for anything. If Tobirama died - his last and only brother - Hashirama was sure he would break. The crows cried in displeasure. The rain didn’t seize.

“And what do you suggest, Hashirama?”

Madara’s voice was steady, deep and clear: a breakthrough through the rain and the clouds of death. In a gust of wind the rain shifted and Hashirama could see him clearly in the distance, standing tall and seemingly unbothered by battle. His weapon in hand, but lowered to his side. 

“Negotiations! Peace talks! Anything that won't require our weapons!” Hashirama exclaimed. Wasn’t it obvious? How could this be solved otherwise? He didn’t want to fight anymore, didn’t want to sharpen his blades and pry the blood from under his fingernails in the self-cleaning mania that often followed these battles. 

“They have failed in the past.” Madara replied evenly, the tone of his voice not giving away anything. No resentment, no benevolence. 

“We have to try!” Hashirama insisted, “You cannot possibly want this either, Madara. Our brothers and sisters die and I don’t see the reason anymore. All this suffering–”  He threw his arms in a sweeping gesture, looking around the field, “For no reason at all.”

Deafening silence. Lack of words. Only the rain and its sounds. He looked around, but the sight of Senju symbols on backs, the faces of their owners buried in the mud and puddles, made him feel sick. He swallowed heavily on his grief and looked up, trying to see Madara clearly as he was blinking hard, heavy drops weighing on his lashes. 

Madara was frowning at him, his eyes bloody red as the sharingan pierced through Hashirama. Flames and rain and blood. The silence was heavy, unbearable and then, finally:

“Send a falcon with a request.”

Hashirama was clinging to him like a man dying of thirst in the wide deserts of the nomad people, and Tobirama was the life-saving water he was drinking in with big gulps. The hug was hard and desperate and almost violent in its strength - unlike any of Hashirama's usual hugs, when he was just cuddling him up, perhaps to get a rise out of him. 

Tobirama couldn't help but sway a little, his hand grasping his brothers back, gripping the cotton. He knew that he'd taken a while to get home after the battle, but that wasn't unusual. The Uchiha had talented scouts and Tobirama's first and foremost objective, like it always had been, was not to be discovered. To remain the Shadow that he was, unheard, unseen, only being the notion, the foreboding of imminent danger. 

He had realized that the main battle had ended two days ago and that it had been particularly bloody. But he hadn't realized that it was this bad. 

"Anija." He rasped, a whisper but loud enough for Hashirama to hear.

"Tobirama." His brother's voice was raw, "You– you have taken so long. I thought–" 

What he had meant to say was left unspoken, but not unheard. Tobirama, impossibly, drew him in even harder, burying his head in his brother's neck. "Do you doubt my skills, anija?" 

A deep sigh escaped his brother. "No, of course not." He said, "But I do not doubt theirs either." He added. 

Ah. 

They stood there, for a while, neither really willing to let go. Hashirama likely because he had thought that he lost his brother and Tobirama because he wanted to give him reassurance. I am here, anija. Alive, healthy. Do you feel the warmth in me? You haven't lost me. Not yet, not ever. 

Tea was set up afterwards. Tobirama had spent days out in nature and under the skies - often without proper shelter and fire to keep him warm. Campfires risked alerting the enemy and revealing his location, so he had abstained from making any sort of fire, no matter how small. The hot liquid filling his mouth and running down his throat tasted like heaven. It was always good to come home.

“How’s Mito? Where is she?” He asked finally, when they had settled.

Hashirama turned the tea cup in circles on the floor, observing the motion with a certain distance in his eyes. It unsettled Tobirama in a way he couldn’t describe.

“She is doing well and has been a great help. She is supervising the infirmary and giving support in tending to the wounded. It is–” His gaze wandered up and it finally seemed like he was truly looking at Tobirama. 

“It is really bad this time, Tobira. We’ve lost many, a couple of close cousins as well. A dozen have been gravely wounded and I don’t know how many have a chance of making it, the fever is going around in the infirmary.” He shook his head slightly, “We haven’t even been able to properly bury all of our dead yet, some bodies are still unclaimed. The Uzumaki have been sending aid, but can’t give too much themselves - I also can’t ask Mito to do more. She is already doing much more than she needs to, I–” He huffed in frustration, “It cannot go on like this.”

Tobirama inclined his head, perhaps to think, perhaps out of grief as well. He had heard the names of the cousins that had fallen, but only now got the confirmation that the whispers floating around the Senju compound were true. He remembered some of them well, memories being happy children playing together in the dense forest lands welled up. His heart hurt.

“It can’t.” He agreed, “By the sound of it, you have already thought about your next steps, anija.”

“Yes.” Hashirama confirmed, refilling his cup of tea, “Well, I have already taken these steps, if I am honest with you. I know I should’ve perhaps consulated with you first, little brother. You won’t like it.”

The tea was sweet, caressing his tongue and soothing his dry throat. Even though their resources were slim, his brother still added honey to Tobirama’s tea, just how he liked it.  

“You don’t need to consult me, anija. You are the clan head.” He said, simply because it was true. 

Their father had succumbed to his injuries after another particularly hard battle years ago and left Hashirama and him to fend for themselves - with Hashirama following tradition and becoming clan head himself. Tobirama still remembered sitting by his father’s side in the last days of his life: this proud, strong, powerful man lying on a futon, pale and sweaty and thin, voice faint and driven by fever. His chakra fading. 

“Promise, Tobirama, promise.”

He had never told Hashirama what his father had whispered into his ear that late fall evening. He had only promised, with all his heart. Shortly after, Butsuma died.

“I am. But I still value your opinion, Tobira. You know this.” Hashirama said, his voice fond.

"No matter now." Tobirama straightened, "What have you decided to do?" 

Hashirama hesitated, clearly looking for words. He sensed that his brother was tired, Tobirama noted, war had aged him and if his previous behavior hadn't been evident then his appearance was indication enough that his brother was at its last wits. What now followed was the ultimate. The only solution left worth trying. 

"I have sent a falcon with a negotiation request to the Uchiha. The elders have agreed to this and are in approval for peace talks." He said quietly. 

Tobirama inhaled sharply. Negotiations. He should've realized that this was what Hashirama had been aiming for. The Senju and the Uchiha had tried to create peace for generations, with each generation failing even worse than the one before. His brother had this delusional idea of the ultimate peace - a village, lived and loved by both Senju and Uchiha. A manic dream that would never bear fruits given the violent and erratic nature of the Uchiha, Tobirama had always thought, but never said. He didn't want to hurt his brother and it would kill his spirit to hear. 

Negotiations. He didn't want to. Didn't want to sit in the same room as the Uchiha scum, didn't want to share a table with monsters, didn't want to sense their faces, their chakra: pale, framed by the cursed black hair. Dark eyes that had doomed many Senju - eyes that changed their color to the same damned red as blood. Tobirama was often glad he couldn't see that well, so the pain of looking into a mirror and seeing the same shade of red he was mostly spared. 

No, everything in him found the idea of talking to the Uchiha with the intent of peace repulsive and unnatural. Appalling. But as he clenched his teeth in inner denial, Hashirama's hand found his. 

Touch had always been important to Tobirama, given that his eyes only let him see little more than outlines, schemes and blotches of color. His brothers had done it a lot when they were smaller, taken his hand and gently rubbed their fingers over his hand's back and palm. It brought him back and without really wanting to, he thought of Kawarama and Itama. Gone too soon. 

Memories of flowers, beautiful and yet terrible - an attempt to appropriately symbolize what these little souls had meant to them. Kawarama died in fall, Itama in spring. Memories of white, linen cloth over small bodies, covering faces - the schemes of a young child underneath. Tobirama, in all his grief, sometimes had wished it was him instead. 

The small lights of his life that had been warming his soul - they had been snuffed, mercilessly. 

Snuffed by the Uchiha. 

But could it continue like this? Again and again? Brothers and sisters taken, pain and grief driving the shinobi mad? Would his brothers still be alive, had his father truly tried negotiating peace back then? Tobirama was grown now. Could there've been a chance for Kawarama and Itama to grow up as well? His chest ached terribly at the thought. It really couldn't continue like this. They had to try. 

Tobirama's fingers found their way into Hashirama's. "Yes. Alright." He said quietly, "I guess it's time."

It was, undoubtedly, a Senju falcon. 

Madara stared at it for a long while, watching the twitchy bird cock his head, flap his wings and push its beak into its feathers. A pouch rested on its back, snugly fit to the body. After his initial small shock, he grabbed the torso firmly and removed the paper that had been contained in the pouch. 

The bird squirmed, screeching in protest in his left hand as Madara’s eyes were fixed on the glistening, green wax. In it, buried, the seal of the Senju clan. Even though the paper was light, at the same time it felt like there was a heavy weight to it. Not physically, but in meaning. The battle that had taken place in such gruesome fashion almost a week ago was naturally still lingering in his mind. They were still cremating the dead, the smoke of the funeral pyres rising every morning, hanging thickly in clouds over the Uchiha compound - it was hard not to associate the constant smell of lavender with death. Some of their own were still missing: Uchiha scouts were searching on the battle sights, but Senju encounters made it difficult to retrieve the bodies. 

Dealing with the aftermath made his soul feel tired and heavy. In the late nights after the battle he had prayed feverishly, thanking Amaterasu that Izuna had still been too injured to participate in battle. When he would visit his little brother in the days following these nights he felt overbearing, gut-wrenching guilt: how could he thank Amaterasu, when his otouto was still so pale, his constitution still so weak? He had gotten better, but the vicious attack of an unknown Senju assassin had left him seriously wounded. Yet, he was smiling again. The last battle was a fight he was spared. A battle that could’ve potentially cost his life.

Hashirama had been serious then, Madara mused as he made his way back to the main house from the falconry. Memories playing in front of his eyes, of an exhausted and desperate Hashirama crying out for peace. Had Madara considered him seriously? Perhaps, perhaps not. He knew Hashirama for a long time now and as long as they’ve known each other the other man had insisted on peace, very enthusiastically so. But a lot had happened in the time between childhood and now adulthood. Dead brothers, sisters and cousins. His father, Tajima, had succumbed to the shaking disease a couple of years ago and Madara, way too young, had to step up as the clan head. As far as he had heard, the Senju clan head had died of battle wounds not long after his own father had passed. Leaving Hashirama to tend to the Senju clan. Making decisions for the wellbeing of a whole clan meant that you couldn’t take a childhood friendship into consideration. Especially not when that friendship was shaky at best and with the child of an enemy clan.

He wouldn’t consult the elders before opening this letter, he decided. He wanted to gather his own thoughts about it first.

In the quiet shelter of the working space in the main house he broke the seal. The paper felt odd in his hands but he knew that it was only his imagination. Madara read the first line. Stiff and formal introduction - he recognized Hashirama’s handwriting, but not Hashirama in the words. There was no aloofness, no joke. It was a serious, formal request. Full of plea and stifled hope. Madara tried to feel angry at Hashirama and the Senju. For everything they had ever done. For almost taking his brother. But at this moment, as he was staring at the dried ink on tan paper, he couldn’t. 

A sigh, heavy and tired, ripped out of his throat.

The Uchiha clan elders approved the negotiation talks. Reluctantly, but they did. Their hate for the Senju was strong, but even they couldn't bear to see their children and grandchildren die anymore. 

As the Senju were the pleading party it was determined that they would have to shoulder the burden of hosting the negotiation talks. And it was a burden indeed. The Uchiha wouldn't come in few, likely paranoid for the whole thing to be an elaborate trap. It was their good right to think that it was - in the decades their clans had feuded, no tactic to potentially weaken the other clan had been left unused. “Peace talks” had been one of them. So the Uchiha would arrive with twelve people in their party. A dozen additional people to the Senju compound's grounds, treated as high esteemed guests, allowed every luxury the Senju could provide with. For an indefinite amount of time. The strain on the Senju's reserves and supplies would be tremendous. 

Hashirama sported a headache that wouldn't seize. Their stocks were running low and it was one of the reasons he was asking for these negotiations. A wet spring and very dry summer had reduced this season's harvest and the crop the year before hadn’t been great as well, given that one of their largest fields had been burned down by the Uchiha over a year ago. They’d be lucky if they could make it properly through winter, provided that it would be a mild one. These peace talks were not only necessary for no more deaths on the battlefield - they were also necessary for his people to not die of starvation.

Hashirama remembered famines well, as a child he had lived through two of them. His little brother, luckily, had witnessed only one of those. They both had been small children and relatively blind to the things that were going on in the world, but Hashirama remembers being hungry. A hunger that still lingered, sometimes, as a phantom pain in his stomach, even now in adulthood. And even if Butsuma never let it be noted how much it had worried him, looking back, Hashirama recalled the look of relief on his father’s face when they had been given food supplies by a friendly clan towards the end of the winter.

So yes, Hashirama worried. The guests would arrive in a month's time and until then he had to prepare. Not only in supplies or in the actual contents of the negotiations. But also for the potential that it could all end in a bloodbath.

It was easy to assume that it was all a trap. A clever and insidious ploy to eliminate the Uchiha clan head and weaken the whole family tremendously. Because why shouldn’t it be? There was so much hatred between the Uchiha and the Senju. Deep, all-consuming and at times, more than likely, irrational hatred. The result of years and years of pain and grief and suffering. Scars, running deep and agonizingly; beaten paths of earth and rotting blood, walked again and again by the countless generations before them. If their enmity was a smell, it would smell like metal, fire and decaying flesh. And now, unforgivable things should be forgiven - at least, in a way. It didn’t make sense in one way, but made every sense in the other. Because the breaking point was here and it was now.

It didn’t make things less dangerous. If anything, the newfound, delicate situation of being in a temporary ceasefire, of neutrality, made everything even more explosive.

“I should come with you!” Izuna tried to get up, but his body didn’t let him as quickly as he wanted.

“Izuna…” Madara felt defeated, it was rare that he denied his little brother anything, but this request he couldn’t grant.

“The Senju just want to stab you in the back and you know it! They’re lying, honorless bastards and I believe no second that they actually mean these ‘negotiations’!” The younger exclaimed, his pale face flushing a little with color.

“No matter what we might think their nature is, I do think they mean it this time. Hashirama at least. And you are still too weak, otouto. There is no way I let you come with me when you can’t even stand on your own properly for more than half an hour.” Madara said evenly and patiently. He didn’t expect Izuna to understand. His brother never had the hand or feel for politics, nor what was safe or sane for his own body. 

Frustrated and angry, Izuna leaned back into the bedding. “It’s only a matter of time until I regain my strength.” He bit defiantly, “And I don’t feel good knowing that you’ll be in their territory for a long time. Their clan head may be honest in his intentions, but he can never speak for the whole clan!”

There was some truth to that. The exchange of letters had lent some level of sincerity to the whole upcoming situation, but Madara was still uneasy about a multitude of things. One of them being the rest of the Senju clan. And more specifically, the one Senju that had attacked his brother a couple of weeks ago. He had to kill him, if he ever met him, Madara had sworn to himself.

Izuna’s condition had been so critical when a rescue team of Uchiha had brought him back from his solo mission, passed out and bleeding from a multitude of wounds. He had almost bled to death that night and Madara remembered clearly holding him, his younger brother that had always been so strong and proud and now suddenly so small and frail in his arms. The image of Izuna, with closed eyes and shadows of candles dancing in his face, drops of sweat from the fever of death glistening in the light, had burned into his mind. He had prayed to Amaterasu that night, and had promised her everything he had to keep Izuna alive. The fever broke the morning after: Madara knew that someday Amaterasu would come and collect the promised everything because she had performed a miracle.

Somewhere amidst the Senju was a talented and dangerous assassin that had almost taken his little brother from him. The one thing keeping his soul whole. And they would pay, negotiations and peace be damned. He’d find a way for his revenge, even if it had to be in the silent way. But he could be patient and he had to be, Madara knew. There were more important things at the moment.

“It will be fine.” Madara insisted as Izuna eyed him, “It has to.”

Senju lands. 

The forest was thicker here, a lot more difficult to travel through even for shinobi. And even if their territories weren’t terribly far from each other, they’d take a while to actually reach the Senju compound. Madara felt antsy, being surrounded by so much earth and wood - out of his element, literally. The Senju were mokuton users and especially Hashirama showed incredible talent and skill for this element. Madara had seen it up close many times now and counted himself skilled enough with the additional extra bit of luck to have survived every encounter. Even if fire was able to burn down wood: there was something incredibly scary about how Hashirama’s jutsus worked, green and brown branches and tendrils, seemingly moving on their own - suffocating and strangling enemies. 

Mokuton was the main reason why the Uchiha had never seriously tried to enter and invade Senju lands far enough to reach the main compound. The dense forest that surrounded the camp would’ve prevented every attempt - sometimes Madara wondered if it had a mind of its own. It was no ridiculous train of thought: the Senju had lived here for a long, long time, in between the centuries old trees with thick, strong roots that connected in between each other in an intricate network. Madara knew that the Senju buried their dead. It would not surprise him if the spirits of the dead Senju, along with their chakra, slowly infused into the trees over the hundreds of years that passed. There was a definitive mysterious and eerie feeling crawling up his spine as he eyed the sturdy tree trunks, hanging vines and restless, rustling undergrowth.

And so he was wary when they traveled. They had met a few Senju scouts two days prior, the encounter clarifying that the Senju granted them travel through their lands as they scouts just quickly had identified the party and then let them continue to go on their way. It didn’t seize Madara’s worries - one could never be careful enough.

“They are due to arrive in a day or two’s time.” His cousin’s face was stern as she reported to Hashirama and him, but it often was, “Our second scout team has encountered them near the south-eastern border and given this rough estimate.”

Hashirama nodded thoughtfully. “Alright. Thank you, Tōka.” He dismissed her.

Tōka simply nodded, the grim expression in her face not lifting for a second, before she left quickly. The inevitable arrival of the Uchiha, especially Uchiha Madara, had every single soul in the Senju compound on their last nerve. Especially those who knew enough about Uchiha Madara and had seen him first hand in battle - which, not coincidentally, were the same clan members instructed with the safety of the clan and compound while the Uchiha resided there. They had to use every advantage they could get. Tobirama still thought the best case scenario was that no one would die during these negotiation talks. 

The citizens, the elders and children, were talking. Fearful whispers behind raised hands, widened eyes in which the white almost swallowed the small irises - old, horrific stories, whether true or false or maybe a little bit true and a little bit false, retold after lying dormant for years, wandered through the Senju households. Stories of the fire demons. No one would feel safe while these monsters were here, not the citizens, not the shinobi. Not Tobirama. 

“The most has been prepared.” Hashirama mused as he refilled tea, “Mito has worked out a list for our negotiations. What we demand and what we are willing to supply. You have read it already, I take it?” 

Tobirama simply nodded. He had a jutsu that helped him read which his father had taught him as soon as he had realized that his second son had terrible eyesight. And due to the whole situation being highly uncomfortable to Tobirama, he had thrown himself into the preparations of the peace talks. Maybe to regain confidence, security. He didn’t want to admit it, but he feared. Perhaps not particularly for any lives, but for what these negotiations could possibly change. 

What would his position be, should these negotiations succeed? Would he still do the same tasks he had done before? What was expected of him then? There was doubt gnawing at him - most of his missions had involved the Uchiha. Should these missions seize… would he even be useful anymore? He was almost blind, a cripple. The Senju had no use for cripples. He didn’t even know anything else in his life, but to be a Shadow. Tobirama knew that Hashirama would never leave him behind, yet these thoughts still had haunted his mind the past nights.

“Good. I would’ve never expected anything else, diligent as you are!” Hashirama said cheerfully, but an unnatural silence followed. Tobirama frowned as he felt his brother’s chakra grow unsettled. “Tobira…” He said, his voice careful.

“Yes?” He answered softly, a strange knot forming in his stomach.

“In my exchange of letters with Madara we promised to each other that if we want these negotiations to succeed, both parties have to play with open cards.” Hashirama explained, “With… every card laid open, Tobira.”

His brother’s hand threaded into his right that had rested upon his thigh. And Tobirama knew. He knew what his brother meant. It was like his world was swinging upside down - he actually felt physically dizzy for a couple of seconds as he tried to collect his thoughts. 

“You want…” He began, but had to stop to take a breath, “You want me present?”

“Yes, Tobira. I want you to be present during the negotiations. As my brother and as the Senju heir that you are. My heir.” Hashirama squeezed his hand ever so slightly.

Tobirama stayed silent as he heard his own heartbeat hammer in his ears, the loud noise penetrating his brain as if someone played drums in his mind. He couldn’t comprehend, not really, not right now. He was twenty-two years old, ever since he was a small child–

“Do you– I have never been present, anija. All my life I have been a Shadow.” He whispered, trying to control the panic that he felt.

“I know. And I want that to end. You aren’t a literal shadow, Tobira. You are my little brother and I love you very much. I don’t want to hide you anymore, you deserve more than that. I should’ve lifted you from the Shadows years ago already, when father died. I know he only gave you this position to protect you, but he never truly saw how strong you are. That you can walk in the light like the rest of us can. So I ask you to be at my side when the negotiations start.” Hashirama said softly, but determinedly. His chakra had calmed a little, but it did nothing to Tobirama’s inner turmoil.

He took a shaky breath in and out. Out of all things he’d expected would come with these negotiations, being freed from the responsibilities of being a Shadow wasn’t one of them. He had simply assumed he'd continue to be one. 

The Senju Shadows: assassins, scouts, thiefs. Invisible to everyone but very few of their clan. Nobody outside of the Senju even knew they existed in the way that they did. In this separate category, as an elite group of shinobi that had been willing to go the extra step for their clan. Even if Tobirama hadn't chosen it, he took his role as a Shadow very seriously. Almost two decades he had been the best of them and now he suddenly shouldn’t be anymore? Was this the loss of purpose he feared? He had no skills besides the ones he had as a Shadow, he thought bitterly, what use would Hashirama have of him at the negotiation table? Naturally he had often dreamed of walking in the light, like Hashirama did. Especially when he was younger. Had never quite understood why his father had punished him into this existence in the dark while his older brother could walk carefree in this world, brightly, happily.

But things had changed. He had arranged himself with being a Shadow, grown comfortable in the dark. And now… Could it be a new chance? Or his demise as a person? Tobirama didn’t know. He only feared. But he couldn’t deny Hashirama anything, he never could. He’d die for his brother, even if Hashirama wouldn’t believe it. And for him he'd be brave in the face of his fear. 

“Alright, anija.” He whispered, “Anything for you.”

Chapter Text

II.

Despite how long Madara had known Hashirama, he'd never been to the Senju compound. Nor really been in Senju land, but that was another matter entirely. The place was beautiful, he admitted in a quiet thought to himself, as the guards finally opened the wide gates to let the party and him in. Beautiful in a different kind of way than the Uchiha compound, but nice to look at nonetheless. Everything was green and bright, lively in a way forests and their clearings tended to be, large and old trees in between the buildings providing shade. The gift of mokuton also guaranteed stunning structures and houses, intricate in their design and appearance. Unusual and unique to Madara in a fascinating kind of way. 

He tried not to stare too much, careful not to be rude or risk having the Senju suspect he was spying out the layout for attack possibilities. Everything about the position he was in was delicate and frail and he knew he had to be on his best behavior, even if it was hard to do so, being surrounded by their mortal enemy. 

It was easy to see the common Senju as such, but very hard to see it in the beaming and joyful face of Senju Hashirama. He stood there in the middle of a sandy square in front of what appeared to be the main house, back straightened, with a few other Senju gathered behind him. Every one looked like the picture perfect definition of a Senju: a small sea of chestnut brown hair and tan skin. But then again, the Uchiha gene ran strong in appearance as well, Madara mused. 

As they got into close proximity, Hashirama stuck out his hand, smile never faltering. 

"Madara! I can't express how glad I am that you have made it here. I welcome you warmly to the Senju lands."

Madara took the offered hand, putting some pressure into the handshake, ignoring that even after all these years in which they hadn't been quite that friendly to each other, Hashirama forwent the polite "-san" suffix. 

“It is something that was inevitable to come,” He said carefully, “I thank you and the Senju for their hospitality. And may these peace talks be joyous and fruitful.” Basically empty ramblings, diplomatic speech that seemed to mean a lot but essentially said nothing at all. But it was appropriate for the moment. 

Hashirama didn’t seem bothered one bit. It even seemed to increase his excitement, as he inclined his head in fond agreement as his other hand came to meet Madara’s arm. “Well met, Madara!” 

Madara himself was able to see in the corner of his eyes how his own party squirmed in grim antsiness and, as his gaze swept forward again, how incredibly dogged the Senju’s expressions were - not a single muscle was moving in their faces. This whole visit was going to be draining and anxiety inducing; he’d truly be glad if he left the Senju compound with all his limbs attached and no one from his party missing. He let his hand fall out of the handshake and by his side again.

“We have guest houses prepared. It is quite late and you all must be exhausted by the long journey. I suggest that we start with the negotiations tomorrow so that you can use the rest of the day and evening to recover. I have instructed a few clanspeople that will cater to your needs as long as you stay here. Meals are already in preparation.” Hashirama continued with a small smile still plastered on his face. 

Madara had to hand it to Hashirama. He knew how to talk to people and lull them in - Madara felt his aching muscles and rumbling stomach. They had traveled light in fear that if they packed too heavily, they'd be unprepared for combat. A warm meal sounded fantastic to him at that moment. With a few parting words Hashirama left them in the care of a few Senju that seemed to be lower ranking clan members, servants of sorts. They hurried them to the guest houses at the outskirts of the compound and left them there with the promise of food and a hot bath before squirming away. It was obvious that they hadn’t signed up to tend to the Uchiha voluntarily, with how violently they avoided any eye contact. Not that Madara let it bother him.

About an hour and a half after they had arrived the sun had set and Madara found himself with a comfortably filled stomach in a hot, steaming bath; a kunai nearby, on the sill of the wooden tub.

Tobirama had felt him before, when he had entered Senju territory, but with Uchiha Madara’s arrival at the compound his chakra signature amplified by a tenfold. He was a particularly sensitive sensor, which Tobirama was grateful for given his condition, but at times it was nothing short of a curse. A terrible, terrible curse. In times like these, for example. Madara’s chakra made him distinctly uncomfortable and at the same time it seemed to be crawling up his back with goosebumps caused by something like a warm fire on a cold winter day. In fact, it felt exactly like a fire - burning hot and dangerous. On one hand it was warm and inviting, but at the same time it left you with the sure knowledge that if you got too close it would burn you without any hesitation. The fear of fire was branded into humanity's instincts and Tobirama, no matter how skilled of a shinobi he was, had never been above instinct. Madara's chakra to him felt like glowing, simmering embers flushing down his body, again and again, like a cycle, through every cell and bloodstream. 

Tobirama had decided a long time ago that he most certainly did not like it. He had felt Madara’s chakra only a couple of times, though he had never faced the man in battle. He never even came remotely as close to him as he did now, with the other being on the same grounds as him. He had only brushed with it, felt the idea of Madara's chakra. But even from a distance Madara’s chakra burned brightly in his system. More wildly and chaotic than any other Uchiha. He couldn't help but think that where fire raged, burned earth remained. That where a spark flew, a forest was set on fire. How was he supposed to sit in front of him tomorrow when even being in the same proximity made him squirmish and antsy? 

His mind’s spiraling ramblings were interrupted by the presence of Hashirama and his cool and soothing chakra signature - in the corner of his eyes Tobirama saw his older brother joining him, placing some meals on the low table.

“I assume you haven’t eaten yet either, Tobira?” He said as he pushed forward some deliciously smelling perch.

“I haven’t,” Tobirama confirmed as he tried shaking his previous thoughts off, only half succeeding in doing so. He grabbed the chopsticks lying nearby. “Itadakimasu.”

They ate silently at first and though the dishes were lovely, Tobirama didn’t feel particularly hungry, even if his stomach told him otherwise. “Uchiha Madara has arrived. I felt it.” He said finally.

“Yes, about an hour ago. They are in the guest houses in the east.” Hashirama replied, “Tomorrow the negotiations will begin, as I told you. Mito has already prepared everything and I’m confident that things will go smoothly. Madara didn’t seem as averse as he could’ve been.”

Which was not the best basis to go off of. ‘Not as averse’. It was no secret that the Uchiha had been very aggressively against any truce in the past, pride and anger preventing them from taking any step towards the Senju in peace. But even if the Senju weren’t as stubborn and spiteful as the Uchiha, Tobirama knew that the only man truly and fully standing behind the peace negotiations was Hashirama. Many Senju were as unwilling to shake hands with Uchiha as Uchiha were with Senju. So he carefully and wisely didn’t respond to his brother’s last sentence. But Hashirama wasn’t so kind as to let it slide.

He sighed. “Tobira,” His tone wasn’t annoyed, but perhaps a little hurt, “You have to have faith. I want these negotiations to succeed and I know you do as well. I understand that it must be scary for you to come out of the Shadows, but I deem it necessary. And truthfully I never saw quite the future for you in the Shadows as well.”

Hashirama was right. There was no future in the Shadows. Sooner or later every Shadow died, mostly by killing themselves when they actually got caught - it had naturally never happened to Tobirama and if he was entirely honest with himself, he never thought about what he would actually do if his position ever got revealed. It was old order to commit suicide then. No Shadow ever really survived past thirty-five. He simply assumed that he wouldn't live long anyways. 

“I assure you that it is no problem, anija.” He said, careful not to reveal that, yes, he was scared. 

Of course he was scared.

And Hashirama, in all his wisdom, said nothing to that, just let his warm hand rest on his little brother's shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. 

It was strange to wake up surrounded by so much Senju chakra, but Madara adjusted quickly after a brief period of stressed confusion. It just wasn’t very comfortable and he felt how his party was eager to begin the negotiations as well - it would make or break if the Uchiha could safely leave this place. It would decide if the Uchiha and Senju would continue to be enemies or, miraculously, would rise to be anything else than that. Madara wasn’t quite sure if he could believe in anything other than enemies. Allies? It sounded strange and almost ridiculous to him. But nonetheless he tried to center his feelings as they approached the main house.

Greeted by Senju servants, they were led towards a large tatami sliding door. 

“You can enter,” The servant said and Madara noticed, again, how they were avoiding eye contact, “Hashirama-sama is already waiting with his advisors.”

With that they pushed the door aside and Madara, along with his party, entered. Quickly, as any shinobi did, he calculated what actually was going on in the room, along with who was present. There were some people there who he could immediately classify as harmless and so his gaze, automatically, fell on Hashirama who sat in the center. He was engaged in a conversation to his left with a red-headed woman who had a soft, yet stern face. It was no feat to assume that this was Senju Mito, formerly Uzumaki, the wife of Hashirama. The news of their marriage had traveled far and wide: a cleverly done arrangement to strengthen the ties between the Uzumaki and the Senju. Senju Mito was said to be clever and fierce.

Then, however, Madara’s gaze fell to Hashirama’s right.

It was as if someone had hit him square in the chest; breathless, his step faltered for perhaps one fragment of a second.

On the other side of Hashirama sat a young man, younger than Madara surely, in a dark blue, plain haori and perfectly polite seiza. He was pale, paler than anyone Madara had ever seen before - it was as if his skin was almost translucent. Incredibly white hair fell into his face as his head was inclined ever so slightly, similarly white eyelashes resting on sharp, defined cheekbones. The distinct red markings possessing his face only underlined his captivating angularity. It was like looking at an intricate snowflake, a cool, still, silent winter picture - frozen lakes and trees covered in snow. The man seemed lost in thought, as he was staring at the low table.

Madara swallowed thickly as he shook himself internally. What was going on? The man’s chakra was cool and steady and almost as dominating as Hashirama’s - like the rapids of the wild, wide river behind the Uchiha compound. The one he had almost drowned in as a child. So unlike any Senju chakra that it left Madara briefly confused. 

“Ah, Madara! And your companions! Sit, you are very welcome.” Hashirama’s booming voice broke his trance like a punch to his face.  

Quickly he tried to regain his composure, placing himself on the zabuton that was facing Hashirama and collecting himself, careful to not let his gaze slide back to the young man again.

“I am glad that we can come together like this. I think we can both agree that this is a unique opportunity both of our clans should utilize to the uttermost of our abilities. It is now up to us to make a new future.” Hashirama said and smiled good-naturedly. 

Madara raised his chin. “Indeed. We have feuded for far too long. If we can succeed in these negotiations it will spare a lot of future blood.” 

It was the uncomfortable truth. But Madara had never been above speaking uncomfortable truths. Stubbornly he let his gaze rest on Hashirama. 

“Well said,” Hashirama responded, “Let me introduce my party. This is my lovely wife Mito. She has helped tremendously in the negotiation preparation so far.” Mito bowed her head slightly, enough for it to be counted as polite. 

As Hashirama’s hands slid from gesturing to Mito to his right, Madara’s gaze naturally followed.  

For the second time in a span of not even half an hour he felt like his breath was taken away, as he stared into bright, red eyes. His heart began beating faster. A blessed of Amaterasu? Among the Senju? The young man’s own gaze seemed lost as those incredible, haunting eyes moved minimally, but rapidly from left to right. It was as if he wasn’t focussing on Madara at all, but looking through him. And yet he was simply, astoundingly, perfectly beautiful. 

Literally, breathtakingly beautiful. Soft in his whole image, with his white hair and crimson eyes, yet  it didn't take away from the masculinity of his features. Madara couldn’t look away. And it seemed like he wasn’t the only one who thought this way as he felt Hikaku shift next to him.

“It is my great pleasure to introduce Senju Tobirama. My brother and heir.” Hashirama said and his tone was pleased. 

Madara felt like he lost his footing and he was falling, falling, falling down a great and deep cliff.

Senju Tobirama. Hashirama’s brother. If he wasn’t a shinobi and didn’t have this tight grip on his composure, he was sure he would have had his uttermost surprise planted on his face. This was entirely new information: the Uchiha knew Hashirama had brothers, two of them. But they had died at a young age, when they still had been children. This third brother was entirely unknown to them. And apparently he had been Hashirama’s heir all these years - it was so surprising that Madara couldn’t help but ask.

“Forgive me for asking, Hashirama. But I was not aware that you had another brother.”

Hashirama smiled mildly at that, as if Madara had told him a good joke. “It would’ve surprised me if you’d known. Tobirama has always stayed here within clan walls.”

“I am visually impaired,” Tobirama suddenly said and his voice was deep, rich and soothing, like his chakra. 

Madara then understood the rapid movement of Tobirama’s eyes. Either he was completely blind or saw very little - suddenly he felt for Hashirama and comprehended why he’d keep his brother sheltered. He'd do too, if it was Izuna. But immediately after Madara thought this, a twinge of wrongness went through his mind and the trail that these thoughts had left. This really couldn’t be right. He didn’t doubt that the man sitting next to Hashirama was his brother: as much as they differentiated in looks and chakra signature, there were subtle hints of love and affection in the way Hashirama looked at his sibling and softly touched his arm. This was a deep family bond no doubt, Madara remembered how Hashirama used to talk about the brothers that had passed away, so full of love only an older brother could give. There were some odd similarities in their features as well, even if they were faint. 

No, that was all correct. The man was indeed the previously unknown Senju Tobirama, apparent heir to the Senju clan head. But what felt wrong and like a lie was the other statement Hashirama had given - that Tobirama had always stayed within the clan walls. Insinuating that this wasn’t a fully trained shinobi, or skilled warrior. Because that Madara deemed as impossible.

Not with the massive amounts of tightly contained chakra that was flowing beneath the man’s surface, of which Madara only got a glimpse, with a level of control that would be only possible with years of training. And certainly not with the way he was keeping himself, back straightened, muscles in his legs tense - it spoke of experience. Someone less observant would’ve also thought what Madara had in the beginning: that this poor, blind man was absent mindedly staring into nothing, mind elsewhere. But now that he looked closer, letting his gaze sharpen, he could clearly see that, despite his obvious impairment, Tobirama was fully aware of what was going on in this room. This whole get-up, had it been intentional or not, might’ve fooled the average Uchiha, but not Madara. 

That wasn’t a sheltered brother that was closer to a civilian than anything else and he most definitely wasn’t a useless cripple. That, Madara realized, was a highly skilled shinobi.

He let his gaze wander back towards Hashirama, who had continued talking happily. Why lie? Why lie that his brother was a protected, harmless creature that was his heir only because he didn’t have children yet? And why did Tobirama let him? Shinobi prided themselves in being shinobi, in presenting their skillset and talent. But then again, as Madara reflected on past fights, he had never seen Tobirama on the battlefields. 

Irritated, but curious nonetheless, Madara tucked these new bits of information into the back of his mind and let himself be drawn into the beginning stages of the negotiation.

He could be wrong about the newly revealed Senju brother, he mused, but he rarely ever was wrong. 

Tobirama felt nothing short of relief as he was finally able to leave the room and get away from Uchiha Madara. 

The first day of the peace talks were long and tiring and it had been immediately evident that the negotiations wouldn’t be done within just a couple of weeks. This would take months. Tobirama wasn’t aware if his brother knew, but they would have to develop a long breath and show patience if this was supposed to work out in their favor.

The Uchiha had left for their guest houses and Tobirama was standing in the hallway, light of the dawning late summer sun warming the skin of his cheek. A deep breath in, a deep breath out. He was utterly exhausted from being exposed to so much Uchiha chakra and especially Madara’s chakra over hours and, at the same time, shielding his own so vehemently. It had almost been painful towards the end, but he deemed the shielding necessary to make the tale of him being a sheltered civilian more believable. He wasn’t a fool to think that Madara hadn’t noticed: not with how intensely he had felt the man’s gaze on him the entirety of the day. But he could at least give the impression of only being slightly trained, in hopes that it would work. He sighed. A hand found his back.

“You did well, Tobira,” Hashirama said softly, “Will you join me for tea? Dinner is being prepared, but I think it will still take a while.”

Had he really done well? Tobirama doubted, as he only truly remembered being reserved and taciturn during the past hours. And the thought of food made his stomach churn. 

“Yes. You go ahead, anija. I will be joining you soon. I just– need a moment.”

Hashirama let his hand brush over his brother's back for a short moment, before it disappeared. “Alright.”

And with that Tobirama was, thankfully, blissfully, alone again.

The negotiations started to drag themselves. Madara anticipated this sort of thing - he hadn’t been so foolish to expect that they would all sit down, talk for a week, come to terms and shake hands on a new found peace. The Uchiha and the Senju had been in a constant state of war for hundreds of years, with periods of ceasefire being short and few and far between. The last one held up for a record breaking two and a half weeks, before their fathers had even been born. The thoughts of actual peace then, in comparison and given the circumstances, seemed not only ridiculous, but like delusion. What they were attempting to do would change history. 

So Madara mused that no one truly expected the negotiations to last a week or two. And so the weeks went by: the first, the second, the third and soon the second month of their stay at the Senju compound broke. He had received a letter from Izuna, who was handling clan business on his behalf while he was gone. Madara was relieved to read that Izuna had mostly recovered without complications, just cheekily implying that handling a kunai might not be the same as before. It seemed like the other minor clans the Uchiha occasionally had trouble with were lain low, no confrontations, no problems. It was relieving and took a lot of stress from him, but it naturally didn’t mean that it would stay this way. It was an additional pressure to everything else that was already weighing on his mind. 

But the negotiations had barely progressed. They hadn’t come to terms on most of the main and decisive key points, which all boiled down to one, crucial thing. Credibility and validation. 

Guarantee. Because what truly guaranteed that, when they had painfully and lengthily negotiated their peace, either party would keep their terms? That no one would break the trust and violate the signatures Madara and Hashirama both would give? The clan breaking the terms would be honorless, a liar, yes. But in war there were only liars. What would finally determine that the lies had come to an end? That the war had come to an end? A flimsy piece of paper? The drying ink of a clan head signature?    

There was a lot of hesitance on both sides because no one knew the proper answer to these questions they were both certainly asking themselves. Even if both Madara and Hashirama were willing to stand for this peace, there were doubts, there was mistrust. And this hindered the actual negotiations - both clans naturally wanted themselves covered. It was nerve-wrecking and exhausting. By the time the second month’s second week arrived, Madara felt very familiar with the Senju compound and it worried him.

The summer had started to fade and the first trees presented yellow and brown colors. He was sitting outside of his guest house on a late afternoon, savoring the warm rays of the sun that broke through the foliage, smoking an Uchiha blend through his kiseru. There were the negotiation subjects that were occupying his mind a great deal, but despite taking up a lot of space there was another thing sneaking around in his thoughts that he just couldn’t shake, no matter how much he wanted to. Speaking of which…

Even from a distance he was able to spot Tobirama, it truly wasn’t difficult. With his pale features and white hair he stuck out from the rest of the Senju like a sore thumb. But Madara was surprised to see him, as he apparently didn’t wander from the main house too often. He and his brother were still keeping up the schtick of him being a handicapped, sheltered young man, but Madara had long determined that it was a ridiculous lie. Tobirama was clearly intelligent, proven by the times he had given a piece of his mind in the negotiations - head strong and determined, definitely a lot harsher than his older brother, even if he obviously tried to dial it back.

But Madara had seen him move, and had watched him closely. Tobirama was a dangerous man, no doubt. It made him curious and he cursed himself for it - he shouldn’t be this nosey about a Senju. But his damn face and, Kami, his eyes. A Blessed of Amaterasu among the Senju - but it meant something, right? Tobirama's eyes were just as beautiful as a sharingan, even if it hurt to admit. Angry with himself, he took another long drag from his kiseru. The blend supply he had brought with him was slowly running out.

“We are not making progress.” Hashirama said in week seven, his face unusually tight, posture tense.

Madara gave him a mildly derisive look. “Unfortunately and obviously.” He responded simply, not seeing a sense in dancing around the subject. Tobirama’s eyes were on him, narrowed.

“This is not the time to be facetious,” He bit at Madara, his voice more dominant than it had been the past weeks, “This subject matter is serious and I ask you to take it just as seriously.”

Before Madara could get worked up about the younger Senju’s briskness, Hashirama jumped in, a hand landing on his brother’s shoulder. “All is well, Tobirama. We’ve been talking about the same things for weeks now. You cannot blame someone for getting annoyed after all this time. We are all tired of it and we're not even seeing the horizon.”

A bitter truth stated. But Madara heard something in between Hashirama's lines. "It sounds like you have already thought about a solution to this." He said, watching his childhood friend closely. Even if he trusted Hashirama to some degree, he wouldn't go so far as to think the other wouldn't use a chance to go behind Madara's back. 

Hashirama sighed wearily. "I have contemplated a few options. In the beginning we talked about potentially involving a third party in these negotiations, correct?" 

"Correct." Madara confirmed. They had thought of it, to perhaps bring some neutrality into the talks, but moved it aside. None of their clans really wanted a third party to snoop around in their clan business.

"We could send a formal letter to the daimyo, present our situation and ask for advice. The daimyo is experienced in peace negotiations and perhaps a neutral person can reflect better on our situation." Hashirama suggested. 

Madara crooked his head. "I'd need to talk to my party about this," He said, nodding towards the other Uchiha clan members that were present. 

"Naturally. We will continue tomorrow. You can give us your decision then." Hashirama replied, his face lifting a little. 

The people dispelled afterwards and after the Uchiha arrived at their accommodations, they sat together for tea.

"You should agree to the letter." Hikaku said dryly, "We really don't have many other options if we don't want to pick around the same subjects again and again until we're old and gray. I miss home."

Only Hikaku, next to Izuna, was brave enough to impiously talk to Madara like that without risking a beating - but judging from how demure the other members of their party nodded, heads buried in their tea cups, Hikaku's opinion was universally shared. 

Not that Madara was particularly offended on this occasion. He agreed. "Yes. I'm tired of the long ramblings as well. Hashirama hasn't been lying when he said that the daimyo is experienced in peace negotiations; this could be an advantage to us."

Madara only hoped that it would resolve the blockage they were experiencing now. The falcon to the daimyo was sent two days after. 

The daimyo took another two weeks to respond. Fall had overtaken the summer  - the green from the trees was slowly but surely fading, immersing the Senju compound in many shades of red, brown and yellow. A few leaves had already begun falling, a brisk wind had picked up a week earlier, busily rattling the treetops and hurling the loose leaves through courtyards and gardens. Hashirama  called in a meeting, the Senju falcon that carried the response had landed an hour before.

Not soon after, both parties found themselves in the same room that Madara had become so very familiar with. Hashirama, surprisingly, looked slightly uncomfortable and Madara, as he settled, began wondering what the daimyo could’ve possibly suggested that made the Senju clan head this uneasy. Tobirama looked as calm as ever, but Madara had come to find out that the younger Senju had a tight control on his emotions. 

“If he has emotions at all.” Hikaku had said once over sake. It was easy to assume that, given how cold and abrasive the man’s behavior was.

“As you all know, the daimyo’s reply has arrived,” Hashirama began tightly and Madara crossed his arms, anticipating what was to come, “I will not dance around the subject more than I need to. I will give you the letter to read later, Madara. The daimyo explains that he has reflected on our situation and, given all the circumstances, sees only a proper solution in the form of a political marriage.”

A wild murmur broke loose on the side of the Uchiha and Madara was stunned. A political marriage? An arranged marriage? But the more he thought about it in the few seconds that the other Uchiha were getting worked up about the suggestion, the more it made sense. Of course a marriage was the only thing that would give the ultimate guarantee - blood was thicker than water, even if the blood was married in. You simply didn’t attack family. An Uchiha certainly wouldn’t and, no matter how honorless the Uchiha might think the Senju were, the Senju wouldn’t either. Both clans valued family above anything else. 

“An arranged marriage, then.” He simply said, to clarify and it shut the rest of the Uchiha in his party up immediately. The room fell into an uncomfortable silence. 

Hashirama nodded. “Yes,” Then he took a deep breath, “The daimyo suggested that the marriage should be between very high ranking clan members, to ensure the importance and to have the bond be as strong as possible.”

Of course. Oh, Madara knew where this was going and he felt his teeth clench, a weird, bitter bile forming in his throat. He was unmarried. For one reason or another, but mainly because Uchiha usually married for love and he simply hadn’t found that person yet. Where should he even have? He didn’t have the time, nor did he have the peace. Uchiha married for love, it was known far and wide; they were emotional people, their kekkei genkai, the sharingan, deeply rooted into their emotional landscape. It didn’t mean there weren’t any arranged marriages happening within the Uchiha clan, the notion of completely avoiding that practice was ridiculous given the political climate they lived in. In fact, Madara himself had signed off on a handful of them to ensure stable political connections. But it was still frowned upon - Uchiha that were married off were pitied. Poor souls, that would never have the chance of finding true love, to elevate their strength in battle and personality. Stumped in their potential, damned to an unhappy life. 

“What you are not saying, Hashirama, is that you want to suggest that I enter this arranged marriage, am I correct?” He stated boldly, voice frosty. 

Hikaku’s head snapped around to him and it was not unnoticeable how several people in the room were starting to hold their breath. It felt like the temperature, even though summer had only just  started to fade, dropped several degrees.

Hashirama had the decency to look ashamed. “Yes, you are correct. I am sorry for not voicing it immediately. But, think about it Madara. The higher the clan member that is to be married, the higher the chance that this peace will actually last. I would offer myself, but… I am already married.” His hand found Mito’s, who only glanced at her husband slightly before carefully watching Madara again.

And Madara hated it, but Hashirama was right. In everything he had said. And he wasn’t here for fun, to dance on the Senju’s noses and waste time, but because he wanted this peace as well. His thoughts inevitably went towards Izuna - deathly pale on a futon, seemingly already devoid of life. He really didn’t want to marry, but what choice was there?

“Fine.” He bit with an unwanted, but inescapable venom, “I will do it. Have you thought about the Senju I will be marrying already?”

“What do we do, anija? No Senju would be willing to marry an Uchiha.” Tobirama had said, his gaze somewhere on the wall, brows furrowed. He held the paper in hand that the daimyo had sent back.

“Well, they will have to. We are the pleading party, we can’t forget our position. If Madara even agrees to be the one that will enter this political marriage, we will give him free reign in the selection of the bride. Anyone that is of age and unmarried will be a candidate.” Hashirama said.

He saw how his younger brother’s jaw clenched. He understood. He didn’t particularly appreciate this either, but it was the lot the pleading party was given - they wanted peace, no matter what price.

“I don’t like this, anija.” Tobirama said. He always had a big heart, Hashirama mused, feeling for his fellow Senju. He laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder, kneading carefully.

“Me neither, otouto.”

Madara saw Hashirama inhale and exhale. “You can choose whomever Senju you want, as long as they are of age and unmarried.” 

The sentence stunned him, but it made sense. Pleading party. And after that the thoughts came toppling, one after another. The past weeks with the hours and hours of talk and discussion accumulated - all his frustration and anger and exhaustion came crashing down. And somewhere along these lines a certain someone crept in, someone that had refused to let him go these past months. One that had occupied his mind so heavily that he had almost fallen into rage about it. And Madara was furious, in a way, with Hashirama and with the Senju - for every Uchiha that had fallen because of them, for how they almost had taken Izuna from him, for forcing him to sit here, in the land of the enemy, and marry one of their lot. Robbing him of the chance to ever find true love. And he wanted to take something equal.

Take something that would hurt.

“We will give you time to think, Madara. Maybe you can look around the compound, I am willing to introduce–”

But Madara’s arm was already raised, finger pointing at a young, white haired man with a visual impairment.

“I want him.”

Chapter Text

III.

Tobirama felt like he couldn’t breathe. He was sucking in air through his nose, desperately almost, but his lungs hurt and it felt like they weren’t filling up with nearly enough air as they needed to. He was dizzy and in his silent state of panic his fingers dug into the hem of the dark haori he was wearing - the soft fabric gave him back some sense of reality, just enough that he wouldn’t spiral further. 

“I want him.”

Just as it had come out of Madara’s mouth Tobirama knew immediately who the Uchiha meant. He was no fool: Tobirama had noticed with what intensity Madara watched him over the past weeks, after the first initial meeting. He had tried his best to brush it off. Madara had simply been curious, he told himself, he knew that he was unusual and something new and exciting to gawk at. Perhaps Madara simply wanted to assess who he was, calculate his level of danger. And Tobirama had been prepared to deal with all of that, had even thought that the Uchiha would approach him at some point, ask him some inconspicuous question until he satisfied his curiosity. 

He had blatantly ignored the certain undertones in Madara’s chakra that would flare up when he was staring at him. Just simply repressed the whole notion. Because that couldn’t possibly be true, there was no way this notion existed in reality. Tobirama knew somewhat what he looked like - pale and frail and freakish, with eyes the Uchiha could only possibly see as a mockery towards the sharingan. He never expected to ever marry and so he didn’t particularly care for his looks either, getting the red facial tattoos for storing chakra. There’d never be a spouse that could’ve been angered by them. Or so he thought.

Him? Him. 

Madara wanted him, Senju Tobirama, for the political marriage between the Senju and the Uchiha. He had expected anyone, had even gone through a few names in his head; there were many pretty girls in the Senju clan and for the possibility that Madara preferred men… well, there were a few pretty men as well. But him? 

He had never thought of himself. And now he was sitting here, heels digging into his backside, head inclined so that no one could see the rapid movement of his eyes that increased when he was distressed. By Kami– Could he? Could he really? Enter a marriage with Uchiha Madara?

But it wasn’t a question of being able to, was it? He had to. His brother said it to him earlier - they were the pleading party, Madara could choose whoever he wanted and they had to let him. He had the choice. And he chose Tobirama. In a hasty, sudden and very quick decision that hadn’t even taken five full seconds, but he did. And Tobirama, reflecting on the past weeks in resignation, doubted very much that he would change his mind, no matter what Hashirama might try.

He felt his older brother shake himself from the shock that Madara’s words had caused. “Now, Madara, hold on. You haven’t even–”

“I want him. No one else.” There was finality in Madara’s dark rasp, “You said yourself that the daimyo suggested high ranking clan members to marry. I am the Uchiha clan head and I demand someone somewhat equal to my rank. You are already married. But your brother, to my knowledge, isn’t. And he is your heir. He comes closest to the given standards. So I want him.”

A stifling silence of a full seven seconds followed. Tobirama counted them. Because what Madara said made full sense. It was even the most rational choice, Tobirama couldn’t deny it.

“I–” Hashirama still seemed to not believe what he heard, “You can literally choose any one of the Senju, Madara.”

“Is he of age?” Madara asked bluntly instead.

Tobirama swallowed in resignation. “I am. I am twenty-two.” He said softly. Madara’s attention shifted towards him.

“Are you unmarried?” He asked further. There was nothing in his tone that possibly betrayed how he felt in that current situation, but Tobirama had come to find out over the past weeks that Uchiha Madara was a relatively cold, abrasive person - with a fiery temper that flared up once in a while.

“I am unmarried.” Tobirama confirmed, already accepting his fate. He knew that Madara was only proving his point with the questions.

“Then I choose him,” He said, turning back to Hashirama, “He meets all the requirements that you have given, Hashirama.”

Again, silence. Uncomfortable, thick silence. Tobirama felt for his brother’s chakra and was met with unhappiness and distress, anger too, ever so slightly. He took a deep breath. It was nice, in a way, to know that his older brother still cared so much for him after all these years, even if he knew he had always been the less favored brother of them all. But it never mattered to Hashirama, engulfing Tobirama in all the love he could give and it had always been a lot. 

To think that he’d have to part with it. That he’d never come home from long, uncomfortable, lonely and gruesome missions - full of blood and death and violence and darkness. And not be greeted by Hashirama with his blinding smiles and big hugs. By his unconditional, all-consuming love that cleansed Tobirama of his sins, washing away the painful memories and replacing them with soft giggles over tea. It would hurt. Painfully so. Tobirama thinks that it would scar him so deeply, that he’d feel it until he’d one day find his end.

“He is all I have left.” Hashirama said suddenly and his voice was bitter, cold, “He is my only brother.”

“I know.” Madara replied, not unkindly, “But for peace, we give.”

“I can persuade him, I know I can! With enough time–”

“Anija.”

Hashirama had pulled him into their shared living space after the meeting for the day had ended. It had gotten dark, the sun now vanishing sooner than when the negotiations had started - cold wind from the gardens blew in through the open tatami door. Hashirama felt torn, Tobirama sensed it, and he really wished he could make it better. But he had to make it worse.

“You won’t be able to. Uchiha Madara has made his choice. And he chose me. And the arguments he has given are all sensible. We have literally no reason to object to it.” He laid his hand on his brother’s arm, “If we do, it will only make us look bad.”

Hashirama sighed. “I know.” 

They both said nothing for a while and Tobirama felt torn. He didn’t want to be the cause of distress for his brother. But this was for peace - a peace that Hashirama had always wanted, dreamed his whole life about. This was for a peace where no Senju had to die because of an Uchiha anymore. This was a peace for Kawarama and Itama.

Suddenly, Hashirama was close, pulling him in and pressing him into his chest - a hand in his hair, one on his back.

“I just hate that I’ll lose you too.” He mumbled softly and Tobirama heard the hurt in his voice.

“You won’t lose me, anija,” Tobirama replied, “I’ll carry the Uchiha name then, but I’ll always be your brother.”

Hashirama laughed slightly. “I know, Tobira. I never doubted that.” But he didn’t further elaborate what he meant.

The brothers hugged for a long time.

It was agreed, for the sake of equity, to let the wedding happen on a neutral strip of land in between Senju and Uchiha territory. 

Even if Hashirama was vehemently against it in spirit, the wedding would happen - after wrestling with a stalemate for so long it truly was the only option left if they really wanted the negotiations to succeed. And both clans had stated that they wanted this success, and made clear that they were willing to pay a high price for it. Madara had chosen, and, like Tobirama predicted, didn't change his mind. This political marriage was bound to happen, only the clan elders were left to convince. But there wasn't much convincing that had to be done - they wanted peace just as much as the clan head and they'd never been quite fond of Tobirama. He was the second born and he was disposable; finally they'd be able to get rid of the Uchiha eyes among them. 

It was bigotry, yes. Irrational, sure. But after decades of hatred and disdain between the Senju and the Uchiha it was very difficult not to hate red eyes - the cursed kekkei genkai that had taken so many of their kin. They didn’t want a reminder of it sitting among them. And so they signed off on the marriage happily. Hashirama had looked disappointed at the speed in which they, unanimously, approved. 

And then it was just… decided. A done deal. 

But no wedding on this scale and with that level of importance was planned in just a couple of days. Preparations were running like a wildfire, and as far as Tobirama knew Madara had already sent multiple messenger falcons towards the Uchiha territory; to inform their elders, he assumed. No one could keep their feet still and lost their heads in organizing and prepping. And Tobirama was… mostly left out of it.

It was evening, and darkness engulfed the compound as a cold breeze got caught in his haori. He was making his way towards the small pond not far from the main house, which he had visited a lot when he was small. The busy noise of the household slowly diminished into a soft murmur as he made himself somewhat comfortable on the large quarry stone that hemmed the murky water. As he didn’t see well, regardless of whatever supporting jutsu he took advantage of, he relied on his hearing a lot - sometimes things just got very convoluted because of it. As if his mind was overflowing with noise. As a kid he had struggled a lot with it and whenever it became too much he would flee towards the pond and the trusty quarry stone, listening to the soft ripple of water and the quiet croaking of toads. 

Now he sat here again, after not having been for a long time. He traced lines into the superficial dirt of the cold stone, inhaling the brisk air that was enriched with the smell of woodland water and earth. He wondered, not unhurt, why he was being kept out of the wedding organizations. It was his wedding after all, wasn’t it? But Hashirama likely wanted to spare him any pain, in a last attempt to shelter and protect him. And the elders just wanted it to be over and done with, without Tobirama meddling in their plans.

He took a breath. It wasn’t the first and it certainly wouldn’t be the last time that he was unwanted. That people made him feel inferior. Rarely people met him without any qualms, be it because of his looks or his impairment. It shouldn’t sting this bad anymore, like when he was a kid; he was a grown adult and a refined shinobi now. But somewhere inside his closely guarded heart, there was a little Tobirama screaming because of the unfairness, the cruelty. It was reassuring that the stone felt real underneath his fingers. 

Someone approached, he could hear it. A shadow pushed into his field of vision and when he felt for the chakra–

“Would you be opposed to me joining you, Tobirama-san?” 

Tobirama moved his head towards Madara, his voice surprisingly close. He was caught off guard by the sudden, stiff politeness - there was none of the usual cockiness in his tone, nor of the arrogant sarcasm.

“Do whatever pleases you, Madara-sama,” He responded, moving his head back towards the dark pond, “If you sit here or not is all the same to me.”

“If I’d do whatever pleases me, I wouldn’t be here at all.” The older man retorted with a clear-cut honesty, but nonetheless he settled next to Tobirama, not quite sitting on the stone, but leaning against it.

“And yet here we are,” Tobirama said, “Do you think it is appropriate to follow your husband-to-be to a secluded, dark area, Madara-sama?”

Tobirama knew he was being petty and teasing, but he couldn’t help himself. Uchiha Madara was the man that would take everything he had ever known from him, force him into a new and scornful world and expect him to smile into it - all in the name of peace. 

Madara scoffed, but it didn't seem particularly disdainful. "I wouldn't have to retort to such uncivilized and barbaric measures if I'd been granted proper time with you. We haven't even shared a real conversation yet." He pointed out, this time with the usual sarcasm in his tone. 

And he was right, Tobirama reflected, they hadn't shared a conversation yet, which was probably worrisome given that he would marry this man. But, then again, should he really try for conversation? A part of him was against it with every fiber of his being, but the rationality in him was lecturing him for his abrasive behavior already. He was to share the entire rest of his life with Uchiha Madara, and this rather intimately - he should at least try not to be entirely unpleasant. But the unfairness of it all made it all very difficult; he wanted to be selfish, but knew he couldn’t.

“Is it of any importance? We will have a lot of time to get familiar with each other after the wedding.” Tobirama said, but his voice lacked the coldness he wanted to portray. Rather, it just sounded emotionless. Defeated, perhaps. 

“Oh, yes, we will,” Madara purred in a teasing, playful manner - one that made Tobirama shiver and left him wondering if Madara was serious or just aiming to get a rise out of him, “But I am rather curious about you already. You are at an advantage here. You know of me, but I barely know of you, Tobirama-san.”

Tobirama didn’t know how to respond. He couldn’t argue against it because Madara was right in a way, but he still wished he was alone on his quarry stone. His fingers began drawing lines again, just to feel the rough surface underneath his fingertips. Reluctantly, he gave in.

“What is it that you want to know about me, Madara-sama?”

He was prepared for any kind of invasive question about his person, just as he was prepared to deflect it. While Madara pretended to be thinking, Tobirama knew he was watching him again and this time very obviously. He let the silence linger until Madara began speaking.

“What’s your favorite tea?”

It was such an unexpected, innocent question that it almost flustered Tobirama and in his surprise his head lifted a little. Now suddenly remembering that it was rude not to look at people while they were speaking to him, he shifted his gaze towards Madara. Naturally, he didn’t see much; just the dark schemes of a person surrounded by the bright and blurry dots of the main house's lights. That question was one he could answer without feeling defensive.

“Tilia blossom.” He managed. Madara hummed acknowledgingly in response. 

“It’s lighter than other teas and a little sweet, isn’t it?” He asked.

“Yes,” Tobirama confirmed, “It also has healing qualities. It’s soothing for an infected respiratory system. I appreciate that.” And here he was, babbling again about things no one really was interested in but him. Oh, he just wasn’t any good at conversation. Slightly ashamed of himself, he shut his mouth, lowering his head again.

Why in all hells had Madara picked him? Literally anyone in the Senju clan would've been more suited for this. 

“Thank you for telling me, Tobirama-san.”

And before Tobirama could say anything back, Madara had gone.

Senju Tobirama was a little strange. Quiet and dismissive, almost as if he was scared of talking to people. 

Unsocialized, his mind supplied, isolated from a very young age, surrounded only by a handful of people. 

Lonely, sprang into his head. All of these things would've been indicators that fed the implied story Madara had been given about Tobirama. Sheltered, protected, disabled young man. The family's baby. But even if Tobirama's behavior was a little weird it was all contradicted by the subtle skills he had displayed so far. Madara had tested the waters, just a little, and it was confirmed right away. When he had spotted the young man by the pond he had done his best to approach him silently, as a good shinobi would. Tobirama had noticed him anyway and this easily. 

Would Madara have to be careful when around his own husband? The question was quickly answered by his own mind.

Yes. 

He could’ve easily chosen a Senju civilian or a shinobi with rather humble and plain capabilities, but in his temper he had chosen quickly and impulsively. And once he decided he never backed out of a decision. Now he had to take into account that Senju Tobirama might have the skills to kill him in his sleep without him even noticing - and he, Madara, was taking him right into the heart of the Uchiha family. A viper amongst falcon chicks. But was it hungry?

But he couldn’t help his fascination with the young Senju; strange and talented no doubt, taciturn and reserved in a way that it was taunting Madara to break the hard shell and see what lay behind. To press into the soft flesh underneath the iron armor and fathom what made Tobirama himself. Softness or cruelty? Loveliness or horror? Madara had always liked to be challenged and Senju Tobirama, without even knowing it, had presented to him a challenge of the best kind.

The wedding preparations went on and with every hand available helping, the arrangements soon were done. A little time had flown by and suddenly it all was there. He would leave tomorrow, for a pathetic, but neutral strip of land to marry and become an Uchiha.

The days had been dark and gray and gloomy for over a week. They were filled with the cold and wet, the leaves had turned fully golden and brown in earnest a while ago. The wind was crueler now, promising a harsh winter as it tore through the treetops, shaking the raindrops from the previous intense rain shower from the foliage.

Tobirama knew the small path well. The path down the hill in the forest behind the compound, whose beginnings weren’t easily found. It was difficult and rocky to tread, at times sloping dangerously downhill, with large roots obstructing the way on more than one occasion. It was an exhausting little journey, but then again, this path was never meant to be easily walked on. It was a reminder.

After a short walk that seemed to go on forever, the forest dwindled into a small, rounded clearing. Surrounded by the oldest of trees of the Senju woodlands that threw protecting shade in the summer and comforting beds of multicolored leaves in the fall, were graves. 

Many of them. Dozens, hundreds perhaps, closely situated to one another - young and old graves alike, some so aged that they had been swallowed by the forest, headstones broken down, withered and unreadable, belonging to Senju that had died hundreds of years ago. The recent ones so young that the inscription was still as clear as on the day it had been carved into the stone, with wilted flowers lying on top of them. Tobirama saw the one belonging to his father and faltered, for a few clear and conscious moments, before continuing on. 

To twin graves, sitting closely next to each other, with carvings that dated around the same time, only months apart. Tobirama knelt as he reached them, not particularly caring about his kimono getting dirty from the wet underground - he had never visited too often, but often enough to know the picture before him by heart. Softly, gently, he brushed some dirt off of the bright stone on the left grave, reflecting silently about the past weeks as his eyes skimmed over the lettering. 

“I’m getting married now, did you know?” He said, very softly. 

Silence. He was always met with silence here. But the trees rustled as if they were answering in their stead. Tobirama swallowed thickly, almost not daring to speak the next part, feeling strangely afraid. 

“To an Uchiha.” The autumn wind roared as if in protest. Tobirama immediately thought it to be appropriate. His fingers brushed over the smooth stone, as if he wanted to soothe. He took a deep breath in. 

“Am I betraying you, Kawa? Is this betrayal to you? I hope you know that I still love you very much, otouto. And that I hope that you can forgive me.” Kawarama, of them all, had hated the Uchiha the most. A harsh shaking of leaves, as it happened in fall. Tobirama looked over to the grave on his right.

There was a hole in his soul where they should be, he thought. He remembered all too well when they died, painful memories of only being able to watch as they left through the front gates and came back covered with this cursed, white linen. Children. Little ones. And though he had not been very old himself, he should’ve been stronger anway. In strength and skill: to protect them out there on the battlefields and not as a pathetic cripple moving in the Shadows, only watching numbly, unable to do anything, as they walked to their deaths. In willpower: to stand up towards their father, to push through that no child should be a shinobi, fighting and dying for the clan. Especially not his little brothers. But he hadn’t been stronger and now he was here, kneeling at their graves. The stony reminder of what he had lost. He wouldn't have been able to name it, but something in him had died alongside them. 

“I’m sorry,” He said and choked as his right hand found Itama’s headstone - suddenly he was reminded that back then he missed his brother's departure from the compound, “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to say goodbye.”

How could it be that after all this time it still hurt so very much? As if a knife was stuck into his chest and twisted around, tearing through flesh and blood, breaking him open, flaying his insides bare. It all might as well have happened yesterday, the ache in his heart felt all the same. It was always painful to be out here and he bowed over, his pain almost feeling physical. 

Two tears, appropriately, broke loose from his blurry eyes and he made no move to wipe them away. He watched as they fell to the ground, immediately blending into the wet earth. In that moment he hoped that they knew that he still mourned them. That he hadn’t forgotten. That he will never forget.

“I know I cannot do anything. But I still wish you were here. And that your death will forever be the biggest regret of my life.” He whispered, earnestly.

Tobirama sometimes, in his own little world of delusions, liked to think that they were still with him. In the gust of the wind that was shaking the leaves and tearing through his hair, in the sturdy trees and the hum of the forest, in the feel of the damp earth between his fingers.

What he'd give to hear Itama laugh again, Tobirama thought.

He almost startled as he felt something softly hit his cheek, small and damp. His hand shot up in a quick reaction, tearing off whatever was sticking on his face. As his initial shock subsided, he looked down, his hands inspecting. His fingers were twisting a little leaf.

And with that it was all too much. A dam inside him tore down and he broke into intense, painful sobs. Tears running down his face, hiccuping as he sought support on the headstones, his knees digging further into the dirt.

“Why couldn’t it have been me?!” He yelled angry and desperate, his eyes stinging. But here, no one ever listened. He gritted his teeth, trying to somehow subdue everything back into its usual facade, but only made it worse.

“I’m sorry,” He weeped, “I’m sorry. It should’ve been me.”

He lifted his head up to the gray sky. It would rain again soon, the air smelling thickly of it. And suddenly he felt it clearly: there was this gaping emptiness, a hollow chamber inside his heart - carved by death.

“It should’ve been me.”

He knelt by their graves until it was almost too dark to find his way back. 

Viewed from the outside, the wedding was uniquely beautiful. A large pavilion erected on a broad field, soft fabrics in the traditional wedding colors were wrapped around the wooden bars and linkages - almost nothing was truly traditional about the wedding, but they could at least pretend with the colors. The wind was tugging at the material, playfully throwing it around in the air; the sun was shining that morning, drying the earth, but white clouds had pushed in front of the last warming rays. The mood was demure and reserved. Everyone was just waiting for it to be over with.

And even though there was a flimsy beauty about the location and situation, it all had its grim reasons. There was a near certainty that in the earth of the field were bones of deceased shinobi buried, forgotten corpses when this strip of land had been home to battles. A pavilion had been chosen so that no assassin was able to hide in any other kind of construction. The matrimonial priest sent by the daimyo had come with bodyguards. The guests were stiff and no one smiled - except Hashirama, a little, as he saw his younger brother in the fine, white shiromuku style garment. 

He was no bride, Tobirama was painfully aware; he wasn’t soft, nor pretty, but that didn’t mean the Senju elders hadn’t tried their best to make him look as presentable as possible. It felt like fraud, he came to recognize as he stepped towards the makeshift altar. They weren’t anywhere near a shrine, which was the decisive point that didn’t make it traditional - not a marriage before the Kami. But Tobirama was sure that the gods weren’t smiling anyway. An official fire land priest was there to bless them, and that was enough to bind them in marriage in the eyes of shinobi. In the eyes of man. 

And of course, even if it wasn’t all too uncommon for same sex shinobi to marry, there was always the element of the power dynamics in these arranged marriages. And Tobirama was aware. Very aware in fact, in which position he was, in his white garment symbolizing purity. Demure, obedient, submissive. At least it was cut for a man, he thought dejectedly. At least he was spared the humiliation of being dressed in women's clothing. 

The ceremony seemed painfully long. Even longer because he couldn't quite see what was happening right before him - this world was made for the seeing, Tobirama knew, and so he let himself drift with his mind, trying not to panic all too much. Which, admittedly, didn’t work all too well. And through it all, there was Madara’s presence right next to him. Fiery, consuming, radiating. As if it was drawing him in and repelling him at the same time. Promising to burn him, should he dare, should he come close. It felt dangerous. It felt terrifying. Tobirama, in another quiet thought, admitted to himself that he was scared. 

He shivered and almost startled when the priest merged their hands, binding them with red silk. Final words were spoken and in the ultimate step, Madara pressed a small bowl of sake against Tobirama’s lips. He took a hesitant sip - the liquid burning his mouth and throat - and returned the gesture. And then, finally, the concluding kiss. Tobirama hadn't thought about it until he felt rough fingertips on his cheek, a mouth pressing onto his. It was so reserved and quick that he barely felt it, but it had undeniably happened. His face warmed against his will.

It had been his first kiss after all. 

As relieved cheers erupted from the gathered Senju and Uchiha and congratulations rained down on the newly married couple, Tobirama wondered if Madara wanted to claim his marital rights the following night or when they arrived at the Uchiha compound.

Senju Tobirama. Uchiha Tobirama. 

Saying goodbye to Hashirama, clinging in his strong arms and feeling his warm hands brush over his back, almost broke his soul in two. 

And as the clouds thickened, the first snowflake fell.

Chapter Text

IV.

"I know you can walk just fine," Madara explained, "But we will still take the carriage." He sent for it a few days prior, for a comfortable journey.

Just now he was looking at his young husband's face, awaiting some sort of reaction displayed on it. It never came. "Whatever you think is appropriate, Madara-sama."

Madara held his skeptic gaze, making a note to himself to establish some rules when they arrived at the compound. He already sent a message towards Izuna, to have everything in order when he returned. And despite bringing this necessary but unwanted baggage, he was glad to finally return home. The Senju lands began prickling him in a restless, anxious type of way. He knew the trees didn't welcome him here. 

A soft layer of snow covered the earthy grounds, with bits and pieces of green still shimmering through. It had gotten considerably colder, Madara could clearly see his own breath; it meant the snow would stay and there was likely more to come. If it snowed here, it would be snowing at the Uchiha compound as well, he mused. They needed to get back quickly, for them to not be snowed in half way and for Madara to get back to his responsibilities. Izuna did fine for the time he was away, but he didn't want to burden his younger brother longer than he needed to. 

He looked back to Tobirama, his husband, who was taking a few moments watching the edge of the forest. In the snow whitened background he looked even more beautiful, ethereal almost - with his delicate features and white strands of hair. Madara was captivated. 

He hated it. 

"Come," He grunted, "We have to get going."

Startled, Tobirama slowly turned and walked back towards the carriage, entering it wordlessly. He hadn’t said much even before the wedding, but Tobirama was almost akin to mute now, only politely responding when spoken to. Madara understood, in a way, that it must be difficult to be separated from his clan: he and Hashirama seemed very close, not to mention how sensitive and protective the usually aloof Hashirama reacted when matters had turned towards his younger brother. But to be this reticent? It seemed excessive to Madara.

On one hand, it would make a lot of things easier. His own life, mostly. He didn’t know if he could’ve endured someone chatty and excitable, with a lot of personality energetically pouring out of them. Hashirama inevitably came to his mind, but luckily that bastard was already married. With someone quiet, Madara would likely have less problems with somehow adapting them to his life - it didn’t seem all too complicated to live with someone like Tobirama. It also would be quite exciting to pry his personality out of that cool facade. 

But, at the same time, a bitter ball of disappointment was settling in his stomach - he spared his young spouse a glance. Would he always be this cold and unapproachable? Madara had temperament, character; even if he didn’t want someone annoying, he was still seeking someone who could keep up with him - stimulate him and his brain. He hoped, just a little, from what he’d seen of Tobirama in the short amount of time he had gotten to know him, that they could perhaps find a way to one day comfortably live with each other. 

Madara had already written off the possibility of love entirely when he agreed to the marriage - he doubted sincerely that he could ever love a Senju. But that didn’t mean the marriage had to be bad; they could at least make the most of it. Ranging from living together pleasantly, sharing time and good conversation, to the most basic of his needs. He liked sex like any other man and did not really appreciate infidelity. He deemed it as unsavory and distasteful, unfaithfulness wasn't fit for someone in his position that wanted to be respected. It shouldn’t come to it, but if Tobirama refused… 

He wouldn’t push him to anything, Kami forbid. He could hold out for a few weeks, see where their relationship would head, but if Tobirama's behavior wouldn’t change, maybe he should seek elsewhere–

Madara felt his mouth twist in disgust at his own thoughts and snuffed them immediately. He wouldn’t go down that road, not now. This had only just begun. The man next to him was practically a stranger, a Senju - the blood enemy, that he would lead into his home himself. And he already thought about fucking him. 

He glanced at him again. Tobirama's head was turned towards the carriage’s window, seemingly looking at the landscape that was passing by. And as Madara’s eyes trailed the elegant nose he couldn’t help but think that his reactions were only natural.

It was dark. Now that the sun barely showed anymore, covered by thick late fall clouds, the darkness crept in a lot earlier. They had to rest for the night, until they’d make the rest of the journey tomorrow. At least that’s what Madara told him. Tobirama snuggled deeper into his coat with the white fur trim - a gift by his late father - as a cold breeze swept by, rattling the trees. A few leaves still clung on, but the soft falling snow would make them heavy, loosening their grip. Winter was on their door step and Tobirama already knew that it would be a harsh one. Had fall truly passed this quickly? He stared into the crackling fire, watching the flames dance as the heat warmed his face. He wondered if Hashirama was doing alright, knowing that they'd been short on food supplies when he left. 

"Here." A hand moved into his view, holding a cylindrical object. Tobirama tore his gaze from the fire and recognized Madara, in voice and chakra. 

"It's tea." The other man added, after Tobirama found himself at a lack for words. He moved his hand up, to take the mug. It was warm, almost too hot to hold properly and a soft steam smelling of herbs reached his nose. 

"Thank you." He managed, oddly grateful for the small gesture as he was truly getting cold. 

"I know it's not a Tilia blend," Madara said as he sat down next to him, "But I think you'll like it anyways."

Hesitantly, Tobirama took a sip. The liquid was hot and almost burned the roof of his mouth, but it warmed him properly from the inside as it ran down his throat. He smacked his tongue carefully; it had to be an herb blend. Though it was not one he had before. 

"I do like it," He said because it was true, "Thank you." Why he said it again, he didn't know. 

Silence ensued as Tobirama softly cradled his tea and Madara sipped from his. Everytime the soft herbal blend spread in his mouth, Tobirama wondered - finally, he overcame himself. Madara wouldn't tear his head off for asking questions, wouldn't he? 

"What kind of tea is it? I've not tasted it before…" He trailed off, not knowing what to follow it up with. Or how to put his thoughts into words. 

Madara hummed. "It's a unique blend, so it would've surprised me if you'd known about it. It's made from herbs that grow in the Uchiha compound gardens, some of them are rare. This specific blend is good for winter times - keeps you warm and your immune system going."

Tobirama processed the words slowly, twirling the cup in his hand. The tea did warm him comfortably and, right now, he didn't feel all too bad. The strange twist in his gut had loosened a little and the nausea had lifted. 

"That's good," He said softly, awkwardly, "It's really good."

To that, Madara comfortably said nothing. 

Snow covered the grounds an d trees when they finally arrived at the Uchiha compound in the late afternoon of the next day. It was already starting to darken again and Tobirama was glad they didn't have to rest for another night on the road; even if he was used to it, it was never quite comfortable, especially not in late fall and winter. 

Great, white and plastered walls with black tile coverings surrounded the area, a large gate made out of sturdy and aged, dark wood denying them entry. It looked, as far as he could tell, a lot different from the entryways to the Senju compound, in a more refined, stylized way. The Uchiha had always been a richer clan. Definitely richer than the Senju. 

Smoke arose from the two dozen or more minkas, signaling that the stoking of houses had already begun. A heavy scent of burning wood clung in the air, children’s laughter resounded from inside the walls - they were playing in the freshly fallen snow. Tobirama exited the carriage, following Madara’s footsteps. He was tired of sitting around, only feeling the rocking of the coach over uneven paths and roads. It had made him dizzy and disorientated. Undignified in a way; perhaps not for a nobleman, but certainly for a shinobi. 

Voices echoed towards them. “Madara-sama is back!” - “It’s our Lord, Madara-sama!” - “Open the gates!”

The heavy gate was being moved, wood scratching on the hard and frozen ground. A hand found his back and even though he wore a thick coat, it still felt like its warmth was burning through the layers of fabric. Madara seemingly just was like that, burning and intense, Tobirama thought.

“Stay with me. Closely. I don’t want you straying too far.” He said and it sounded like an order. He nodded only faintly at that. Of course Madara would want to keep an eye on him, he was still the enemy.

Tobirama was no fool to believe that just because he carried the Uchiha name now, he’d be anything more than that. An enemy. The mortal enemy. Not in their eyes. Numbly, he walked with Madara through the large entryway. 

They were heading for the main house, he assumed, from the way the smaller minkas were situated around the larger structure. Hundreds of foreign chakra signatures came down on him at once and the sensation overwhelmed him so much he swayed a little. Perhaps he would’ve fallen if it wasn’t for Madara having his stabilizing hand on his shoulder. It was digging into his coat; Tobirama wondered if out of consideration or watchfulness. It wasn’t all too late, many Uchiha were still outside, hurrying to finish their tasks and chores before daylight went out. As they passed, the Uchiha delegation behind them, their attention was immediately on him.

He loathed it. It made him antsy, his breathing unstable in an unknown fear. He wasn’t used to so many people perceiving him, watching him, their eyes trailing his face and figure. He knew they were whispering and he tried so desperately to shut it out, to no avail.

“It’s him.”  -  “–so Madara-sama truly had to–”   - “By Amaterasu, look at him!” - “–our poor Lord, he looks devilish–”  - “Senju spawn, no mistake.”

And to walk there, bearing it. Scrutinizing gazes cutting razor sharp into his skin. To pretend to not hear them, their whispers about how he was the devil, an evil demon befalling their Lord. Abominable, repulsive, horrid. A beast, devouring hopes and dreams and love. Odious glares out of dark eyes, black abysses gazing at his being in hatred. But what else could he do, besides endure it? He had no choice. His choice had been made by another man - the man that dug his digits into his shoulder. 

Madara was walking fast and with purpose, pushing him along. He must be tired of the journey as well, tired of dealing with his impaired spouse - Tobirama wouldn’t be surprised if he’d be alone for the next few days, while Madara recovered from his presence. Something in him silently prayed for a couple of nights alone, just to come to terms with the consummation of their marriage. He still didn’t feel ready. When it was apparent that Madara wouldn’t consummate their marriage on the spot, Tobirama spent the whole journey thinking about it. It was simmering in the back of his head. He had never had sex. Why would he? He had been a Shadow for far too long and Shadows didn’t have affairs or a love life. And who would want him? Even within Senju standards his looks weren’t all too desirable. 

They reached the main house before his thoughts could gone any further. As soon as Madara opened the tatami door, warm air hit Tobirama, the smell of food deliciously clinging to it. He entered after his husband. 

"Izuna!" Madara exclaimed, looking around. 

"Aniki!" A voice responded and someone came from deeper inside the house, joining them in the anteroom, "You're back. Welcome home!" 

And then, Tobirama got a clear feel of Uchiha Madara's younger brother's chakra. A ball of dread fell hard down into his stomach - Oh no. 

The chakra felt like a flame, similar to Madara's, but a smaller, wilder and hotter flame, with a white, blinding center. And the worst thing about it was that he had felt that chakra before. Tobirama had been so sure that the Uchiha that had been so much trouble killing finally succumbed to his injuries. 

He had been sure that he was dead. 

But he was now standing right in front of him. Very much alive and the severity of the situation came crashing down on him. The person that was now hugging Madara, presence pressing into his consciousness, would be his death sentence. Madara's younger brother. He had tried killing Madara's younger brother. 

Naturally, he hadn't known. He never quite knew who he killed as a Shadow, he just did. But this ignorance now could cost his life. He just hoped, for his life, that Izuna wasn't all too perceptive. Tobirama had been the best Shadow out there and knew how to conceal his identity, chakra signature and everything else well, but fear was still clawing at him like a wild animal going for the kill. 

It had to be unforgiveable to Madara. If he ever would find out, Tobirama was sure he was going to die a slow death - somehow he knew that Madara was that kind of person, thirsting for revenge stronger than any other Uchiha. He was their Lord in the end, strongest of them all. 

He shivered, panic and anxiety manifesting itself in a soft shaking of hands. He clasped them immediately, his own grip strong and painful, to not draw attention to how he was truly feeling - his wildly beating heart in his ears. 

“So, this is him?” He heard Izuna ask, distaste clear in his voice. But animosity was to be expected. 

“Yes,” Madara answered easily, “This is Tobirama.” The grip on his shoulder tightened. 

Tobirama, even though everything in him screamed not to, lifted his head so that Izuna could get a proper look at his face. It would be impolite not to do so and he didn’t want to risk angering someone so close to his husband so soon - he would inevitably, he was who he was after all. But now he just held his chin high, with all the pride he could’ve possibly felt at the moment - he was a shinobi and he should not feel this afraid. 

“Is he–” There was sudden confusion in Izuna’s voice, “Is he blind? Madara, you haven’t told me!” The accusation was clear in his voice.

“Not blind,” Tobirama immediately corrected, a natural reflex. People often assumed he was. “I just see… little.” But Izuna only scoffed at that.

“It wasn’t an urgent matter to tell you,” Madara said, voice a little strained in annoyance, “Because it is of no relevance. He’s my husband, he doesn’t need to see.”

It stung, somehow. Because it only confirmed to Tobirama that he would be of no use here, except to sit around and exist, to be the symbol of peace come to life. His days as a shinobi were over, he anticipated this as soon as Madara had announced that he wanted him for the marriage. But apparently his heart hadn’t accepted it yet; it still yearned for the thing it lost. How would he get over a profession, a state of mind that had been his entire life from as long as he could remember? That had made him useful? Wanted? 

“But a cripple, Madara?!” Izuna exclaimed and Tobirama swallowed at the knot in his throat, “Or you could’ve at least chosen a woman to give you heirs!”

“Enough!” The word of power from Madara easily overcame Izuna’s temper, “He is Hashirama’s brother. He was the wisest choice. I will have no discussion in that matter!” A beat of silence as Izuna seemed to reluctantly recollect himself, “For now I just want to properly arrive back home. Is dinner ready?”

Izuna grumbled, but left the topic. And with that, the conversation between the two brothers easily flowed into comfortable, loving bickering. The outburst of emotion gone within seconds. A little stunned, Tobirama followed the two into the dining room where the evening meal was already prepared and as they ate, Madara and Izuna comfortably shared news they hadn’t told each other over letters. 

It was peaceful and domestic. Tobirama didn’t belong. And never in his life had he ever felt so unwelcome in a warm home and sitting in front of a hot meal.

Dinner was over too soon. Because of the painful, anxious twist in his stomach he wasn't able to eat much, just a few mouthfuls of rice. 

"Come." Madara said, seemingly ready to go to bed himself. Tobirama followed him, taking in the layout of the house as they walke down the hallways. They entered a smaller room in the back of the minka. It was fit for one person, a futon was displayed on the floor - a tatami wall likely connected to a backyard. A candle was lit and illuminated the room comfortably. 

"You will sleep here. I don't trust you next to me yet." Madara said bluntly. Tobirama, frozen, tried to sort his thoughts. 

Of course Madara wouldn't want to sleep next to him. They had just married and Tobirama was the son of the blood enemy clan. But the burning, all-consuming question still flickered in his mind and heart and he was unable to let go. Swallowing his anxiety down, he just had to ask. 

"Are you…" His hands were shaking again and he hated himself for being this weak, "Are you not going to consummate the marriage?" 

His heart was rabbiting against his chest as the words tumbled out, flying into the silence of the room. It was clear they’d been heard. Madara stopped dead in the doorway. The candles flickered, wind howled around the corners of the house and suddenly, Tobirama felt very hot - breathe in, breathe out and breathe in again. The silence was long and painful. 

"No." Madara said finally, not moving an inch, with a weird tone in his voice, "You will just sleep next to me when I know that you don't pose a danger to me while I am asleep. The proximity should be legitimacy enough and will make a consummation unnecessary."

And with that he left, as if it was no big deal. Tobirama was alone in the small room, sheltered by other rooms and the garden in his back - a little prison inside homely walls, as if he was a secret best to be tucked away. And he was, in a way. After several moments in which he just stood there, trying to comprehend his situation, he resigned. 

As he made himself ready for bed, he tucked a kunai under the soft fabric of his futon.

It was pitchblack when he woke again and he had no chance of seeing anything at all. The candles had burned down completely at some point and as Tobirama listened carefully, he only detected the yowl of the winter winds tearing at the minka. Why did he wake?

He didn’t need to relieve himself, no. He wasn’t cold either, nor was he too hot. He wasn’t being plagued by thirst. The futon was very comfortable and his sleep, against all of his expectations, was thorough and satisfying. But there had to be a reason why his instincts had torn him from his slumber in the middle of the dark night. He laid still, continuing to listen carefully to his surroundings, trying to concentrate on other sensory stimulants. 

Oh, and there it was. Looming doom, in the even darker shadows of his room - tucked away in a corner, watching him carefully. He had his back turned, but he knew it was there, waiting, calculating for a possible chance to pounce. His heart was beating faster, but not in fright. This was something he knew - he was a shinobi and had been the looming doom himself on so many occasions that he lost count. He wasn’t scared, nor stressed; the familiarity of the situation crept into his bones and he felt his hard instincts take over. Slowly, with the barest of movements, he slid his hand closer to the edge of his futon, where he hid his kunai.

And then, with the quickest of movements that gave evidence to an excellent and outstanding shinobi, it was on him, foreign body weight pressing Tobirama down into his futon. It was a strong body, full of muscle, strength, experience. Hands on his arms, knees on his legs, pinning him - but Tobirama had been just a little faster and his right arm was lose, kunai at the throat of the person that descended upon him - they were so close their noses almost touched and Tobirama felt the others hot breath on his cheeks.

Now, the shinobi didn’t bother concealing his chakra anymore. And immediately Tobirama recognized - he was breathing hard, adrenaline pumping through his veins, as his brain tried to calculate the situation.

“ Oh ho ho, ” Izuna laughed silently, mockery and the slightest admiration dripping in his voice, “There you are, little fox. Not that harmless, are you?”

Tobirama didn’t know what to say to that. It was clear to him now that Izuna didn’t recognize him as the shinobi that had tried to kill him and that made his intentions a mystery. And Tobirama certainly didn’t like the position he was currently in, face set into a frown as the glowing red of the sharingan bore into him.

“I just fucking knew that there was something off about you,” Izuna continued, but his voice sounded oddly playful throughout the venomous overtone, “ I have little vision, I am just an innocent, harmless Senju. ” He mocked, “No Senju is harmless, no matter what you lot try to convey. And especially not one from the main line. I heard Butsuma was a rough dog, hm?”

“What is your point?” Tobirama retorted angrily, certainly not appreciating the mention of his father, his kunai still at Izuna’s throat. Neither tried moving off of each other. 

Izuna snorted. “I don’t really have one,” And then he backed off, “Just wanted to test a theory, which you've wonderfully proven to me. Watch your back, little Senju. If I should ever have to doubt your intentions towards my brother or this clan, I will fucking kill you.”

He vanished, uneventfully and silently, like a good shinobi would. Tobirama was left alone yet again, the darkness swallowing everything he had been able to see from the room. 

He only slept lightly for the rest of the night, waking up again and again, feeling for the kunai’s handle.

“Rules.”

Breakfast was a rough ordeal for Tobirama. Even though he had nothing to complain about regarding his living quarters, the rest of his night had been uneasy and filled with false alarms. He was sure Izuna wouldn’t be back, quick to assume that the visit of the Uchiha had been a clever way of probing Tobirama, but it hadn’t eased his instincts. Morning came way too early and his appetite did not return - he managed a few bites and a cup of tea. 

Madara found him in the dining room, placing his own cup of tea in front of him while comfortably sitting down. Even though Tobirama had been around him for a while now, the intensity of Madara’s chakra stayed the same and it always managed to make him shiver - Tobirama didn’t know if it was because of its strength or if he was just scared of it. 

He shouldn’t be scared, he was a shinobi. And he wasn't, truthfully. But everything about his new living situation made him anxious and uncomfortable. He had only known the proximity of his close family members his whole life, like Hashirama, Tōka and his father when he had still been alive. Even people from his own clan didn’t really know about him, only perhaps knew he existed. And now he was in a completely new environment, with strangers - foreign people that held no ounce of love for him, would probably like to see him gone or dead. And so he couldn’t help but feel queasy, antsy and on high alert. 

“Rules?” He repeated Madara’s words, slightly confused.

“Yes, rules.” Madara’s voice was something very unique to him, Tobirama noted quite some time ago. Deep and rich, with a rumble to his words. It was a powerful voice, one that was able to empower, but also to frighten. The voice of a leader. “As I have said before, I don’t really know you, nor your intentions yet. Therefore I will establish rules that you will have to follow until I have made sure that I can give you some trust.”

Somehow, even if Madara's distrust was born out of rationality, this irritated Tobirama. “We are married. I have accepted your claim. I have followed you here, abandoned my brother, laid down my family name and taken on yours. Shouldn’t this whole marriage be enough evidence of my intentions?!” He said, not able to withhold the anger in his voice.

Immediately, he scolded himself for it and shrunk back, tense, waiting for Madara’s reaction. He shouldn’t antagonize, he knew, but the slight accusation of having sinister intentions seemed unfair. Against his expectations, Madara remained silent for a few moments. 

“Maybe. But can you fault me for taking precautions, Tobirama?” And he said his name in a weird way, a tone lower maybe, something clinging onto it. And Tobirama didn’t understand what it meant, only that this slight change in octaves confused him. He pondered over the rest of the words.

“No,” He admitted and it stung him, “It’s just…” Again, he had difficulty putting his thoughts into words. It was hurtful, in a way, to be held like a prisoner in this house, in this marriage. To have left everything behind and still be treated as a dangerous predator. But when he thought about it, if the roles were reversed, the Senju likely would’ve done the same.

“So, rules.” Madara repeated again, no disdain audible, “You can move freely in this main house, except for my private quarters. That includes my bedroom and working space - that is off limits. Izuna also won’t appreciate you in his space. If you want to explore the Uchiha compound, tell me beforehand. You can access the gardens in the back. Everything else you can get, food, drink, clothing, no matter. Inform the servants and they will bring it to you.” He listed and paused, before continuing, “I don’t want you to have any weapons.” 

Tobirama swallowed, digesting the rules. With everything else he could arrange himself, he understood why Madara and his brother wouldn’t want him roam around their quarters and even if it would be annoying and undignifying to ask for permission to go out, he could bear with it. But he knew immediately that he’d break the last rule. No weapons? Unthinkable. He always had weapons on him or within reaching distances - at all times, no exceptions. He would be a rather terrible shinobi if he didn’t. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? Madara didn’t even know he was a shinobi.

Didn’t Izuna tell him? Didn’t he go and immediately report to Madara that his spouse was a trained warrior with sharpened instincts, despite being handicapped? Or did he keep it to himself? Both options seemed possible and plausible. Madara specifically mentioned weapons, which spoke for it. But he didn’t seem angry or surprised, the telling of rules didn’t feel like a confrontation - this spoke against it. Tobirama felt frustrated and like he was caught in a limbo: nothing was assured, every corner he made was a risk he took, every word he spoke felt like it was critically observed. It was tiring.

“Do you understand?” Madara said briskly. Perhaps Tobirama had taken too long to answer.

“Yes, I understand. I won’t go into your or Izuna’s private quarters, I will ask you before going out, I will not carry any weapons.” He repeated, to assure that he hadn’t missed anything. But perhaps also to rile Madara.

He received a simple huff. “Very well.” And with that Madara left the room, leaving Tobirama alone again. 

He sat there for a while, near the heated bricks in the center of the dining room that were used to warm the space, thinking. It was a prison, no doubt, he wasn’t free. But as he poured himself another cup of tea he tried to cheer himself up with the thought that prisons could look a lot worse.

Somehow, it was terrible.

Madara was watching his husband, the Senju , whenever his time allowed it. Almost like a compulsion. Not obviously, he somehow couldn’t stand being too close to him, but whenever the younger man felt unobserved. He told himself that it was out of precaution, he was just making sure he was posing no danger to his environment and to the Uchiha living in the compound. But he knew that there was another reason, something else entirely, the same thing that fueled his recoil whenever he was near Tobirama. It was like being the opposite ends of a magnet, repelling, drawing in , at the same time - it was terrible. 

The knot in his insides. Twisting, winding like a dark pit filled with lively snakes. He watched him, as he slowly mapped out the minka. As he took his time slowly wandering through the silent hallways, a hand on the walls, trailing. The soft paleness of his hand, the slimness of his elegant fingers brushing gently over the wood burning into his mind. 

He watched him as he started knowing his way around the kitchen, fascinated how he made himself tea without burning himself on the hot kettle. Watched, as he explored every last corner of the house, sitting rooms, library, storage rooms alike - carefully seeking them out until he had touched every piece of furniture, every decoration at least once, with the gentlest of touches. As if afraid he would break it if his touch was harder than that of a feather. 

His face carefully set in neutrality, the blinding light from the white clouds reflecting on snow, shining through the minka’s windows, painting him even paler than he was. How was it possible that this season’s light made everything seem dull and gray but him? Madara felt angry whenever it crossed his mind, often tearing himself from his place of observation to hurry back into his office and burying himself in paperwork, to not let the thoughts of guilt overrun him that slandered him a voyeur. That screeched at him that he had ulterior motives, that a pretty face was enough to twist his mind. 

He sneered as it roamed his mind again and a droplet of ink smeared on the letter he was writing. It almost made him lose it and in the last second he reeled himself back in, clenching his teeth, clenching the ink pen, breathing in, breathing out.

Snow fell. Winter continued.

After a week he dared towards the tatami door in the back of the main house. It led towards the gardens, as Madara had told him. He knew the entire house by now, nook and cranny, so he thought it was time. He’d not stay long, only wander the deck, he told himself, as it was cold and inches of snow had fallen, covering the trees and bushes and houses thickly like an eiderdown. 

He felt at the door, took a breather and pushed. Cold air hit him immediately and as it was noon, blinding white light from the freshly fallen snow was almost was too much for his eyes. Quickly he scurried outside, careful to not let the door stay open for too long - heat was precious in times like these and he didn’t want to be the cause of waste. The door fell shut with a loud knock of wood on wood.

The outside was eerily silent. It was almost as if he could feel the thickness of the snow - only faint crackles and rustles of the snow adjusting itself onto the grounds and surfaces was audible. He let his senses explore. There was a pond, he realized and a rush of excitement flushed his mind, knowing the small body of water would be full of life in the spring and summer. There were fish, sleeping in hibernation under the thick ice that covered it and as Tobirama sensed further, he discovered that the pond was being fed by a larger river. A river behind the compound walls that had strong and dangerous currents, and despite that still had difficulty pushing large shards of hardened ice along, the ice floes that were proof of a harsh winter. Turtles were buried beneath the earth near the pond and somehow that warmed Tobirama’s soul.

A frozen winter picture, life caught in a deep sleep. The grip of the coldest season. He breathed in, crisp and clear air filling his lungs and nose. It smelled fresh and deadly at the same time. And so he stood there, for a little while, getting terribly cold but not particularly willing to rip his senses off of the pretty, peaceful picture.

A sudden rustle in the bushes drew his attention. It paused, then continued and Tobirama watched curiously as something freed itself from the undergrowth. He saw it surprisingly well because of the contrast of dark and light. A small, black bird hopping along in the snow.

Chapter Text

V.

Winter was hard. And it was long. It arrived early after a short fall and promised to stay longer into the usual beginnings of spring, as Madara could tell by the ice that formed itself on the river, the frost that hardened the earth inches deep. They were still able to harvest the winter vegetables as they were of a sturdy breed, cabbages of all sorts and they had dried meats from their farm animals and the successful hunts of the summer on the shelves of their pantries. So Madara knew his clan wouldn’t go hungry. But it didn’t mean he didn’t worry, nor that he really appreciated the winter. 

Two weeks, perhaps a little more, had passed since he had arrived back at the compound. Most of the business he had to leave to Izuna he already handled and everything slid back into their normal paths as before. He was only doing the usual daily paperwork now and this always reduced in winter anyway. He should be able to lean back a little, unwind, let the uneventful winter months wash over him and regain his mental strength. But it simply wasn’t possible.

Because he was there. 

Tobirama wasn’t even doing anything outrageous, just living under the same roof as him. He hadn’t even gone outside yet. But his presence was like that of a newly discovered ghost plaguing the household. Madara cursed himself and cursed Tobirama for putting him off, for rattling his spirit. And it wasn’t even fair to blame him, Madara knew, as Tobirama was nothing but pleasant since he arrived. Taciturn and reserved on a high level, difficult to speak with, but Madara admitted to himself that he didn’t even properly try yet.

When did his hunger for breaking Tobirama’s hardened shell dim? He loved challenges, so why did he falter? It was unlike him to back away from something he really wanted. And he wanted alright. 

But he knew why. He’d tackle the challenge immediately, would try to lure his young husband out of his cover if they were alone. But they weren’t alone. There was another living with them.

He wasn’t blind and he most assuredly was perceptive. He knew how Izuna looked at the young Senju. There was repulsion in his eyes, disgust, hatred even. He had taken one look at Tobirama when they met and decided that this wasn’t what Madara should’ve chosen. Since then he only ever sneered down at his husband, mistrust clear. Madara didn’t quite know what it was about Tobirama that had his younger brother in such a twist - his personality? That he was male? The way he looked? Perhaps it was already enough that he was a Senju at all.  But Madara understood, in a way. Tobirama had this way about him that got to people and their core, winding them up, wringing their insides. He probably didn’t even know about it, nor did he do it intentionally. To Izuna, it had the effect of agitation, anger. And to Madara… well, Madara didn’t quite know himself yet what it was that he felt about Tobirama. He certainly felt partly what his younger brother felt, aggravation; but he didn’t want to acknowledge the other part of it yet.

The part that hotly slid down his body, coiled in his stomach. Thick and viscously, like a hot pot of syrup boiling his intestines.

He’d never been afraid of himself. Nor of what other people thought of him. He would tackle Tobirama’s quiet resolve sooner or later, but he feared that he would have to talk to Izuna beforehand. To see where he stood and what his actual problem was - or otherwise he’d find himself at the scorn, the contempt of his own younger brother for being too friendly with a Senju spawn.

He saw Izuna that afternoon, trailing back through thick snow towards the main house after he was out all morning with a hunting party. It seemed like he actively avoided being at home recently, which Madara suspected was because of Tobirama. And, perhaps, because he’d been stuck in the same four walls for weeks beforehand, first being injured, then to handle clan business while Madara had been gone. 

Izuna barged through the front door, shaking himself, clattering his teeth in a dramatic manner as he got rid of his heavy winter overcoat and boots. His cheeks and nose were rosy from the cold, a few snowflakes stuck against his raven hair. He had grown a lot in the past years, Madara thought then and there. His otouto definitely wasn’t a boy anymore, but a young man.

“How was the hunt?” He greeted him and Izuna looked up.

“It went well,” He responded, “We didn’t have any snow fall this morning and caught some boar and deer. I’d call it successful.” He paused, readjusting his clothing. “There were a few dōjutsu hunters near the border, but we killed them. They weren’t of great talent.” 

Madara frowned at that. It wasn’t uncommon that dōjutsu hunters roamed the areas near their territory’s borders - the Uchiha clan had one of the most powerful dōjutsu kekkei genkai known to shinobi and Uchiha have been hunted for it for as long as the clan had existed. But in recent years the hunters got cocky, breaching borders and trying to enter Uchiha clan land. It wasn’t a good development and he decided to keep an eye on it.

“Anything from the Senju border?” He asked, as he was curious. Peace was negotiated, but he was still doubtful. How could he not be?

Izuna stilled, but shook his head. “No, nothing. Haven’t seen a single Senju, not even from afar.” He answered and it seemed like he had been surprised by that.

“Hm.” Madara acknowledged the new information, which he failed to feel anything significant about. The Senju were keeping their part of the treaty so far, which was good. He could only hope it would stay that way.

He let Izuna settle afterwards and sought him out some time later in the warm sitting room - the other had bathed and enjoyed a cup of tea. Tobirama had gone out earlier, after properly asking Madara for permission and Izuna seemed to have noticed, as he was visibly relaxed. Madara sat down in front of him, putting down his own cup.

“You don’t like him.” He said, simply.

Izuna’s head turned and his confused gaze met Madara’s. “Who?”

“You know who I’m talking about, otouto.” Madara replied. He had no patience for Izuna playing dumb - there were very few people Izuna actually and truly disliked. He had a big heart like that. 

Izuna huffed. “Of course I don’t like him. He’s a Senju, living in our home.” His tone was bitter, with little patience.

“Izuna,” He started, giving the patience his younger brother lacked, “It was very clear that this would happen. I wrote to you about it often enough and I made this decision for the good of our clan. If I had declined to marry myself, you would’ve been next in line. And I didn’t want to push this responsibility onto you.” He held his brother’s angry stare, his mouth pressed into a grim line, “Marriage was our last option. And I want to make this work. If we ever hope to lay the age long conflict aside and overcome the hatred each of our clans have for the other, we have to let him in. He is the key.”

“Yeah, but he’s a fucking Senju! ” Izuna exploded furiously, teeth clenched. It was an outburst Madara didn’t expect in this severity. “Those people are snakes, demons and you cannot trust them with anything! I bet he is only here to plot and scheme, probably to spy out the compound! His loyalties won't have shifted a bit and it’s a disgrace that he carries the Uchiha name!” His face twitched in barely contained agitation, “A blessed of Amaterasu, among the Senju? Unbelievable. It has to be a ploy, to fuck us over.”

There was so much hatred in his brother’s voice that it made Madara frown. But at the same time he realized that this hatred lacked standing - it was irrational. Tobirama had done nothing to make himself suspicious. And this was a sobering realization. How long had his own disdain and hatred been irrational? Of course they killed each other and for that he could hate Senju - but what about the ones that had never done anything to him? Like Tobirama? A heavy silence overcame the room, in which Izuna angrily, stubbornly stared at the wall behind him and Madara regarded him with a long, thoughtful gaze. 

“Has he done anything to you, otouto?” He asked, finally. Just to be sure.

Izuna rolled his eyes, working his jaw. “No, he didn’t.”

“Then I want you to try, at least a little. To get to know him. If you never do then you will always carry these opinions with you. Even if he’s nothing like you think he is.” He argued. 

It came to him that he was defending Tobirama here, standing against his younger brother in favor of him, the other. If he had told himself this a few months ago, he would've laughed. And he didn’t know Tobirama himself that well either - Izuna could've been absolutely correct with everything. But somehow it didn’t feel right to suspect him of anything, to throw accusations against him that he wasn’t even there to defend himself from. The past days that Madara spent in secret, watching the young man go about, were an oddly intimate experience - Tobirama didn’t know that Madara had been there. And so the elder had watched him in his natural, true form - and he got to know him as gentle, careful, curious. 

“I don’t have to do anything.” Izuna hissed and Madara sighed. His brother was being stubborn - the worst Uchiha trait. 

“Well, I can't and won't force you to do it. But I will try to do so anyway.” He stated and therefore breaking it to Izuna that he would begin to approach Tobirama. 

Izuna only scoffed at that, bringing his tea close to his mouth. “Then don’t be surprised if you wake up one day with a kunai in your throat.”

He just couldn’t stand being inside anymore. That’s why he had asked Madara for permission to go outside.

Tobirama mapped the entire main house, successfully memorizing the layout and all of its rooms. He even roamed the gardens a little, but without proper pathways and inches of snow obstructing his way it was rather pointless. He was growing weary of it, as he had always been a fast learner. It was important to know his environment, especially as he was of bad sight. He had been working on inventing a technique that would allow him to use the chakra stored in his facial tattoos to equalize his bad sight, effectively giving him the ability to see. But it had been cut short by the recent events. And now he was in a dilemma.

He could tell Madara what he was working on and continue his effort - he had been in good faith that, with time, he’d be able to succeed in inventing and applying the technique. It would mean everything. He would see. 

But if he told Madara it would subsequently mean he’d have to confess that he was no ordinary man, but a shinobi. It wasn’t inherently bad. They never had specifically said that Tobirama wasn’t a shinobi. But it was something that had been heavily implied and neither him nor Hashirama had ever made the effort to clarify his status. What would it mean, then, if he’d confess to Madara? Would it change anything? Would Madara treat him differently? Perhaps see him more of a threat? Would he be angry, scandalized, accuse him of infiltrating into his clan? Tobirama just got used to the situation he was in - he could live with Izuna’s hostility, but Madara had been more pleasant towards him than he expected. To ruin that tiny bit of kindness…

Shaken and lost in distressing thoughts, he snuggled deeper into his coat. The white fur trim tickled at his cheeks as a sharp, icy wind chased through the alleys between the minkas. It had gotten significantly colder since he’d last been outside and the days seemed painted in a dull gray. 

A few of the Uchiha actually were outside and only because they had to. Doing daily tasks, like chopping wood, working forges or dyers beating freshly dyed clothing, still wet from the tanks. The Uchiha were many and they seemed, in number, to be a larger clan than the Senju, if Tobirama subtracted the Uzumaki as their distant relatives. He spotted many crowds of children having their fun in the snow, small heads of black hair laughing and screeching whenever they threw snowballs at each other. And despite the harsh days, the compound was lively enough.

He was walking on a smaller lane, maybe a junction or two away from the main road, smaller houses lining the street. Even here the thick snow had been beaten into muddy and wet browns on the road, which made walking easier. No one seemed to pay him much mind, or at least he thought so. Stare they did anyway, whisper they’d likely always do. But he could live with it, as long as he could get familiar enough with the compound. He was already managing to tune out the chakra noise in his head.

And so, lost in thought, he almost missed the small object on the ground. But before he could stumble over it his instincts kicked in, planting him still right in front of it. He stared down, his vision giving him little, but enough. It was a baby.

The baby, perhaps ten months old, looked up at him wondrously with typical, Uchiha-raven eyes. It had thicker clothing, but not enough for the harsh kind of weather, small, bare hands digging into the snow. It had to have come from the houses nearby, crawling away when its mother hadn’t been looking. Curious, like babies that age were. Tobirama smiled, inevitably - he had always loved children.

He crouched down, to be more at level with the small child. Its eyes followed him, still large with fascination. “Hey, little guy.” Tobirama greeted them softly, “Or girl. I don’t actually know.”

No response, naturally. Just a small gurgle. “It’s awfully cold to be out here without a proper coat and gloves, you know? I bet your mommy doesn’t even know you’re here. Perhaps she’s already worried.” He took a quick look around, but everyone he saw was  quite some distance down the roads and didn’t seem to belong to the child.

Tobirama worried his lip. He couldn’t just let the baby stay here, in the snow. Children this small supercooled at an alarming rate and he didn’t know when someone would actually notice their kid missing. He had taken care of his younger siblings a lot when he was smaller himself, it would be no feat to take the child in and look for its parents. 

And with that, he picked them up, the baby squealing and showing him a gummy smile. “Here you go, you can stay under my coat. It’s very warm there.” He said, as he wriggled them into his open coat, in an effort to share body heat. Their head tucked under his, small warmth against his chest, he started looking around. “Let’s go look for mommy, alright?”

He walked down the street, perhaps to see if someone was already out, looking for them. He knocked on a few doors, but got no responses. Then, at perhaps his fourth house, he heard a woman yell loudly. “Haru? Haru!” With clear commotion inside, a male voice, a woman’s voice.

He was about to knock when the door ripped open. A regular woman, maybe thirty, stood in front of him, hysterical. “I cannot find him anywhere, oh kami–” Then, she stopped dead in his tracks, frozen.

Surprised by the sudden motion and strange reaction, Tobirama was at a loss for words. He then cleared his throat. “Ma’am, are you looking for a child? I found them up the road, in the snow.” He freed the baby from his coat, now freely carrying it in his arms.

“Kami! Haru!” The woman exclaimed, “Give him to me! Give him to me!” Her voice was shrill, full of panic. Wordlessly and confused, Tobirama handed the woman the child, which she almost ripped from his arms. 

“You!” She suddenly said angrily, as Tobirama already wanted to leave, “You tried to steal him!”

It was like air had been knocked out of his lungs at what he heard. A hot flush ran down his spine and he frowned heavily at the outlandish accusation. “What? No, of course not. I told you, I found him up the road–”

She clutched her boy closer who began to whimper. “Liar! Filthy Senju liar!” She screamed, “He was here a minute ago and was suddenly gone! You wanted to steal him!”

Tobirama faintly noticed how a crowd began to gather. The woman’s angry yelling also seemed to have alerted her husband who now stood behind her. He didn’t know what to say, nor how to react. How could she say that? He had told the truth and brought the boy back! How could she accuse him of trying to kidnap a small baby?! For what would he 'steal' an infant? Filthy Senju liar. Was that what this was all about? He swallowed heavily and noticed that he was almost completely surrounded by Uchiha - he felt their chakra, loaded and agitated.

“No, ma’am! I just wanted to bring him home–” He tried, his heart beating faster. 

“Shut up!” The woman was not to be deterred, anger and hysteria radiating off of her, “He tried to steal my baby! The demon tried to steal my baby!” She yelled into the crowd that had now grown into a thick flock of people.

Their chakras grew angrier. Their voices grew louder. Tobirama felt how his breathing increased, looking left to right he realized he was fully  encircled. This was bad.

–Senju demon– , –look at him, spawn of hell– , –child snatcher—

“Get out of here, Senju scum!” One voice finally yelled. 

“Your lot killed my brother!” Another added.

"You won't get away with seducing our Lord, go back where you came from!" 

Soon, it was from all sides. “Scum!” - “Filth!” - “Senju bastard!” It wouldn’t stop and Tobirama helplessly looked from one side to another. He was able to defend himself, no doubt, but these people were many, most of them probably civilians. He couldn't just attack them, the consequences would be too great. He needed to get out of there. But how? 

They started throwing things at him, snow, he suspected, as he made a push through the crowd - his hand held high over his head to fend off any other flying objects. His heart was beating a mile an hour and he was getting dizzy by his harsh breathing, the tight, malicious crowd yelling into his ears. They were everywhere, fists coming down on him and he was starting to panic.

As he finally managed to shove past the last line of screaming, agitated people, something heavy and blunt hit him in the face, hard and center on his left eye. He fell to the ground, clutching his throbbing face as the mob tried to surround him again. But as his training as a shinobi taught him better he clumsily got up and, even if his feet slipped in the snowy mud, he ran.

There was no way to describe the shame he felt. The defeat. The helplessness. 

Tobirama had gotten away from the angry mob easily enough, but now he was standing in the hallways of the main house - cold, his coat dirty and drenched and his left eye in excruciating pain. He stood there frozen solid for what felt like an eternity until he finally got moving again, slowly peeling off his hand from his eye and getting out of his coat and shoes. 

This was something he should have expected. And yet, somehow, he didn’t. He knew he was unwelcome in the Uchiha compound, he wasn't stupid. And if he thought about it, an Uchiha would likely receive a similar treatment if he'd be living with the Senju. But no matter how well he understood the reasons, or how firmly he rationalized the behavior, the hot and heavy mixture pooling in his stomach, clogging his throat wouldn't go away - frustration, anger and, most of all, shame. 

Shame that he wasn't able to do anything about it, that he just had to endure the abuse. Shame that even his kind actions had been easily and willingly mistaken for something malicious. Shame that he looked this way - like a Senju abomination. Like a demon. People thought he was a demon - poisonous, corrupting, inherently bad. 

His shoulder hurt from where he had landed on it during the fall, but he worried more about the eye. Tobirama was thinking of what he'd do next, perhaps a hot bath and then tending to his wounds, to see how bad the damage was, when he heard noise from down the hall. 

It was the worst of timings, he didn’t want Madara to see him like this until he managed to collect himself, reeling his wild emotions back in. But here he was now, standing in front of him. 

"Tobirama–" He began, but swallowed his words as he finally got a proper look at his face. 

Tobirama didn't dare to look up, avoiding the silent stare. He didn't want to sense whatever was displayed in Madara's face, not smugness, not pity, not whatever. He bore the silence even though it seemed to suffocate him in the quiet hallway. The shame seemed to crawl over its brim and he pressed his mouth, trying to not let the raw emotion show - he was better than this, above being upset about what happened to him. 

Madara spoke first and his voice was even, calm. "Come. I'll have a look at it." 

As commanded, Tobirama reluctantly drew closer and as he got into reaching distance, Madara grabbed his arm and led him forward, pushing him through the hallway. But it wasn’t a hard tug, nor did it feel like it was fueled by any aggravated emotion - it rather felt more like a guiding push. Led this way he was placed at the low table in the kitchen, near the warm oven heating the space. 

“Wait here.” Madara said as he walked out of the room, only to return a short while later. Tobirama’s nerves strung high as he realized how closely Madara sat down in front of him.

“Now look at me,” He uttered, a finger’s knuckle suddenly underneath his chin, “Up.”

Trying to reign in his nervous heart that couldn’t decide if it hated or liked this situation, Tobirama looked up, the schemes of Madara’s face terrifyingly close. There were a few seconds where the other said nothing and Tobirama could hear his own pulse rhythmically drumming in his ears. 

“Hm.” Was the only thing that finally ripped out of Madara’s throat in a thoughtful quality. “Can you open your eye?” Tobirama tried and succeeded, but the pain in doing so made his face twitch. Madara, wordlessly, began dabbing on the wounds with cloth that he had apparently retrieved. 

“I don’t see any damage to the eye itself. Some blood has run into it, but if you rinse it out with some water it should be fine. Your brow is split, among some other damage to the eye socket and this eye will definitely be swollen shut by tomorrow.” He explained humorlessly. Tobirama hissed in response as Madara hit a particularly sensitive spot with the cloth. 

Without any further exchange of words they sat there for quite some time, Madara treating Tobirama’s wounds with a gentleness that the other didn’t anticipate he’d receive, and Tobirama patiently let himself be treated. He was grateful for Madara’s care, even though he felt uncomfortable with the odd air of intimacy hanging over them. Two grown men sitting close to each other, careful touches. Madara was… gentle in the way he dabbed the cloth, rinsing it in a water bowl. Gentle in the way his fingers brushed over Tobirama’s cheeks. The younger only noticed he’d been holding his breath when Madara was done. 

Afterwards he made tea as Tobirama let himself warm up by the kitchen’s oven. The tea was served and Tobirama had already drunk half of his cup when Madara finally spoke again.

“Tell me what happened.” He simply said and though it didn’t sound like a command, its strong tone still compelled Tobirama to re-tell what had occured.

“I was out walking. And it was fine.” He began quietly after collecting his thoughts, “I came to find an infant in the snow. He wasn’t appropriately dressed for the weather and the mother was nowhere in sight. He would’ve been in danger if he’d been out there for a longer time. So I decided that I would pick him up and look for her.” He swallowed, “I found her rather quickly and gave her back her child. But then she started accusing me of wanting to steal him.”

He kneaded his hands as they started shaking a little, fresh memories of the woman’s shrill voice still ringing in his head, “I don’t know why she would think that. And I tried to explain that I simply found him and intended to bring him back, but… she wouldn’t listen.” His eye hurt when he blinked. Madara was still quiet. “Soon her yelling had gathered a crowd. And things just started escalating from there. They also started yelling. Cursing at me. Hitting me. I wanted to get away, but something hit me and I–”

His own words choked him and he scolded himself for being so emotional about it. So he clamped his mouth shut, swallowing down the knot that had started to form in his throat. He didn’t want to continue recounting it and so he simply didn’t. He let silence fall over them once again - as he looked up he saw Madara sitting comfortably, cross legged, his arm propped up on the table, his hand supporting his head as if he was lost in thought. 

“I apologize, on behalf of my clan, Tobirama. This shouldn’t have happened to you.” He suddenly said, his voice oddly calm and it sent a shock through the younger man’s thoughts.

Madara had apologized. Apologized. Apologized. For Tobirama getting hurt. An Uchiha had expressed an apology to a Senju - it didn’t matter that they were married. It still was so outlandish to Tobirama that it made him sit up straight and he felt his eyes widened in confusion. 

“No, Madara-sama. It’s fine, you don’t–” He tried, but was interrupted.

“Of course I do. I am the clan head. And behavior like that towards my own husband is inexcusable.” He frowned, “Not only are actions like these cowardice, they are also disrespectful towards me. It seems like I have not made it clear enough yet what kind of meaning you have.”

Meaning. The meaning he had. 

His thoughts were in a knot, twisting at each other and not finding an end. "Thank you for the apology, Madara-sama." He said, his voice not finding the strength to say it any louder than a whisper. He meant it. 

To that, he did not receive an answer. 

Tobirama thought about what happened in the kitchen even after darkness had fallen over the compound - it overshadowed the mob, overshadowed the pain in his eye. 

“Hikaku.” 

It was the next day. Madara assured that Tobirama went to bed earlier the night before, to have him recover properly.

“Yes, Madara-sama?” Hikaku’s short ponytail swayed as he bowed his head. 

“I want you to spread the word among the clan. An attack against my husband will be seen as a direct attack against me. Any disrespect against my husband will be seen as disrespect against me. I will not shy away from punishments. I won’t let this marriage and this peace fall apart because my clan cannot follow common decency. It annoys me incredibly that they apparently don’t know how to behave themselves.” He said, signing a paper before looking at his most loyal clan member and closest advisor.

Hikaku nodded solemnly, a serious expression on his face. “Understood, Madara-sama.” He acknowledged. He was among the few that got a closer look at Tobirama and was, next to Madara, perhaps the only one that hadn’t met the Senju with vicious disapproval. 

“I have heard what happened,” Hikaku said, “Is your husband alright?”

Thoughtfully, Madara set aside the pen he had been writing with. “If I’m honest, I don’t know.”

Madara truly didn’t know. Tobirama was as hard to read as ever and even after he was so savagely attacked by members of, what should be, his own clan, he remained passive. Where others would have raged, Tobirama remained silent. 

His order towards Hikaku wouldn’t rake up sympathy in his clan - nor would they understand. Hatred wasn’t erased by a signature on certificated paper, nor by a sobering, cold wedding. It boiled for a long time and it was on the people in charge to twist things the right way for it to cool down. But it was never easy. One wrong move and it would explode again, tearing holes, burning skin. Key, to all, was his spouse. 

And so it needed to be done, he needed to interject, seeing first hand what happened if he didn't. Memories replayed in his mind, of Tobirama standing in the four walls of his own home, gaze stubbornly turned downward. Blood streaming down the usual flawless face, terrible red against perfect white - a shock, he remembered, planted him still then and there. There even was blood in his husband’s eye and then, when crimson met crimson, it almost made it seem that Tobirama had the sharingan. Madara was disturbed with himself that, for a second, he thought it to be beautiful. 

Tobirama’s face was tightly controlled against raging emotions, twitching in his muscles telling Madara that this man felt and that something horrible had happened to him. And the emotions, they wanted to break out, roam free. Madara could see that Tobirama wanted to yell, to cry; wanted to tear, to break and scream. But whatever it was that steered his mind gripped him so tightly that it was almost painful to watch the battle of reaction and control displayed on the usually passive face. 

Tobirama didn’t break. But that didn’t mean he wouldn't. Madara’s own question to himself, as to what would happen if his husband would break one day, was left unanswered. He didn't know. Madara wasn’t one to take unnecessary risks. And so he did his best to catch him, to get him to calm down and feel safe again. With his clan he could and would deal later, he thought. He watched him then, too, at the low kitchen table: the young man's fingers trailing the rim of the rough ceramic cup - knuckles of white hands turning rosy. 

In the very beginning, Madara wanted Tobirama only so he could take. Now, he slowly realized that he actually wanted to keep too. He liked his ghostly presence, his unseeing gazes towards the windows - Madara wondered if he was able to read. And that all made him think that Tobirama should be here with him and nowhere else. Madara was a selfish man, he knew, and didn’t feel bad about it.

His opinion on Tobirama now had shifted from unwanted attraction bedded in hostility laced apprehension towards a sense of neutrality - even though that wasn’t true in its entirety, as he still very much liked looking at his husband. And liked that this beautiful creature was his husband at all. But Tobirama had lost his labels; Senju, enemy. And perhaps now Madara was ready to discover who this man really was.

On violence. 

Wherever social interests collide, the danger of violence is a given. As violence in its essence is a tool of power and whoever reigns the power is king. King judges and king decides. But is there a difference between power and violence? Is one forced to differentiate, to pick apart what is so tightly intertwined? Yet, power is always an essential part of societal constructs and of society itself - and violence necessarily isn’t. Still, they never seem to go without. Violence is accessible to anyone, can be wielded by anyone. Does it mean that anyone can be king? What does it mean to reign power? 

Is violence always physical? 

Violence needs a reason for its existence, no matter how unreasonable it seems. Violence always has reason. And can that reason ever be legitimate? Justified? And who decides what reasons are the legitimacy for violence? He, who wields power? He, who took power through violence? 

Violence one cannot take back - it happens and then one is forced to process what this had done to them. In its extremity, the constellation constitutes to a simple form: all against one, one against all. Power and violence, violence and power.

Hikaku, on his Lord's command, found the Uchiha that had thrown the fist-sized rock at Tobirama two days after the incident. 

In punishment, Madara severed his hand and let it be displayed on the center square until the crows had picked the flesh cleanly off its bones. 

Snow fell. Winter continued.

Chapter Text

VI.

Tobirama missed home. Tobirama missed his brother. Even with all its beauty, winter seemed cruel now, when he had these thoughts. When he woke alone in his little chamber and ate breakfast reluctantly, knowing that he wouldn’t be doing much all day except wait for the day to be over again - there was a gnawing emptiness in him that painfully and slowly spread. 

Sometimes he did go outside and explored the compound, but even after Madara had made his position clear and consequences had followed from the incident, Tobirama was very aware of the hateful stares he got when walking down the streets. And so he avoided it, seeing that his fear of being attacked by a mob again wasn’t all too unrealistic. So, stuck inside, his mind had enough time to wander.

His heart ached fiercely whenever he thought of home, the large trees and earthy grounds - his cousin, Tōka, was at home more often in winter times, as she usually spent the warmer months in the woods commanding the patrols. She would sit by him at the fire and tell him stories, sometimes they’d play shogi and she would lose every time, accusing him of cheating. 

But most of all, Tobirama yearned for his brother. His overbearing nature, his warm hugs and his concern whenever Tobirama came back from missions. The way he’d playfully ruffle his hair and tell his terrible jokes. Tobirama’s home was Hashirama and it seemed that nowhere was he further apart from him than here, in the Uchiha compound. It made him feel numb.

There hadn’t been a letter yet from Hashirama, even though he had promised that he would write to him. But, then again the roads were snowed in and Hashirama likely had bigger worries concerning his clan. Winter was harsh after all. And yet, Tobirama couldn’t help but feel disappointed - he had been here for two months already.

New year was approaching and the constant fall of snow had ceased. The cold hadn’t. It was still a good sign, meaning that winter had peaked. He found himself in the main house's library, letting his fingers trail over books and scrolls. He was able to read with the help of a small jutsu, but he wasn’t able to do it for long - still, it would give him about an hour. 

Madara had never mentioned if any of the literature was off limits for him and Tobirama suspected that he had the important scriptures stored in his office, but it still seemed weird to read some of the books titles that so clearly were meant for Uchiha eyes only. He couldn’t help but think that he wasn’t allowed to read these. He hesitated, but his curiosity won and he picked one out anyway, sitting down at a low desk. 

The book was old, the paper aged and the covering worn in a way as they were when many hands had held it. Carefully he picked at the pages, fearing that if he gripped it too hard they would fall apart under him. Perhaps it would’ve been smarter to look at a more recent book, but the title had been too interesting for Tobirama to skip.

The Uchiha Nindō - A philosophy collection

It was what it said, a collection of Nindō the Uchiha had lived and were still living by. It started from hundreds of years in the past with Nindō that have aged out over time and slowly got to more current philosophies. As Tobirama skipped through the first pages, catching some words, he couldn’t help but wonder how old the book was and how relevant the latest Nindō were. 

On the last few pages, something caught his eye. 

Nikushimi no Noroi , he read, ‘ Curse of Hatred’ his mind supplied. Frowning, he immediately began reading the article. “... Uchiha love and feel deeply and are of an extremely prideful breed…” 

Prideful indeed, it was no secret. Tobirama was slightly amused, but continued to read. “...they tend to hide their affections in public, which can give the impression of cold-heartedness…”

“...should a loved one pass away, this will hurt an Uchiha deeply. Their affection will turn into hatred, despair and determination…”

Tobirama suddenly felt like he was chewing on cotton. The further he read, the more terrible it all became. “...for some Uchiha this can mean that they will follow their goals without any sense of consequences. The Nikushimi no Noroi will take any doubt, remorse or hesitancy.”

He couldn’t help but wonder what would’ve happened to Madara, if he had succeeded in killing Izuna. It was clear to see that Madara's little brother was the center of his universe. Would he have been in the grip of the Curse of Hatred? If he had found out that it had been a Senju assassin, would he have gone and killed Hashirama, for being the clan head of the Senju? Has he, unintentionally, signed his brother's death sentence? Fear and concern gripped Tobirama’s insides as he read the last few lines.

“The activation of the Sharingan, the Uchiha's defining trait and dōjutsu, is being activated by an experience of utter despair. The unique make up of chakra formed by this experience manifests itself in the formation of the Sharingan. After—”

The page was damaged. No words after that passage were discernible. Tobirama suspected that the damage was done intentionally - any further information was to be kept a secret. It would not be unsurprising, as the Uchiha kept the secrets of their dōjutsu very tightly. He sat back on his heels, his hands trailing the edge of the desk: he was in a state of upset, of turmoil. 

The Sharingan was a product of trauma. And if any Uchiha wanted to be a proper shinobi, truly call himself an Uchiha with pride, he had to have the Sharingan. They had to be traumatized to be who they were. It rattled something in Tobirama’s chest and he quickly shut the book, as if it was to bite him at any moment. 

Uchiha shinobi started their ninja way on a path tightly bound by love and hatred, a path that promised madness if you ever fell too deeply into one side. Feeling deeply, being greatly devoted to loved ones. It seemed like insanity to be a shinobi then, Tobirama thought, when it came with the risk of losing yourself completely to human darkness. The balance one had to have to follow this way of life must be outstanding.

Did this all mean that, the stronger the Uchiha was, the more deeply he felt? The larger the risk of falling was? Tobirama’s mind inevitably wandered to the strongest Uchiha of all.

Madara, his own husband. He shivered. He could never know, Tobirama realized, could never find out that he had tried to kill Izuna. Nausea overcame him as he carefully placed the book back into the shelf, slipping out of the library.  

Curse of Hatred. 

As Madara had predicted, Tobirama’s eye was swollen shut a few days after the mob attacked him. And it healed slowly and painfully. The constant throbbing sometimes kept him awake at night and then he would wander into the kitchen, sitting nearby the warmth, tired and yet unable to sleep, until the morning broke again. The whole healing process lasted two atrocious weeks and in that time he had lost not only sleep, but his appetite even further. 

It was evening and darkness had crept over the compound some time ago. Izuna had gone out and Madara was still in his office to Tobirama’s knowledge. So he sat in the kitchen again, its familiarity giving him some odd form of comfort. He was able to open his eye again and it only still hurt when he touched it, which gave him a sense of relief. 

A noise ripped him from his daydreams and he felt Madara entering the kitchen. 

“Good evening, Tobirama.” He said and for the first time Tobirama thought that it didn’t sound completely apathetic. 

“Good evening, Madara-sama.” He replied politely. He had hoped he would be alone for the rest of the night, but all things considered, Madara's company wasn’t all too bad.

“You don’t have to speak so formally to me anymore, Tobirama. Do you want some tea? Soup?” He asked. Servants had prepared the meals earlier and asked Tobirama if he wanted some then, but he had declined. As he did now. His stomach didn’t seem willing.

“I’d like some tea, thank you.” 

There was an odd silence as Madara placed a cup in front of him and he settled down next to him. Tobirama knew his eyes were on him, but he decided not to say anything about it, quietly sipping at his tea. It was the Uchiha blend. 

A sudden hand on his cheek almost made him startle. “Is it healing well?” 

Oh, the concern was real. It seemed ridiculous, but Tobirama didn’t mishear it. “I– yes.” He managed. Physical closeness, especially with Madara, was still something he was incredibly awkward about. And the hand on his cheek felt like it was burning, the calluses rubbing gently over the bruises - or was it his face that was so hot?

Tobirama was mortified as he realized that, as the hand came off his face, it wandered towards his waist that was covered by his yukata. Madara squeezed, and as Tobirama felt, as he gripped his cup, stiff as a board. His heart was beating loudly and his mind was racing as to what the others intentions were - was he trying to claim his marital rights now? Why else would he grope him? 

“Tobirama,” His voice was serious as he pulled away, “You have gotten very thin. How did that happen? You were sturdy enough just a few months ago.” 

He swallowed thickly. He had noticed weight loss, but didn’t think it was all too bad - his food intake had decreased, but he had never been a big eater anyway. On missions, he forced himself to be one with the additional help of ration bars and soldier pills, but he didn’t go on missions anymore, did he? And so eating became a rather irrelevant thing in his life. 

“I… I don’t know. I just don’t have an appetite.” He muttered weakly. 

Madara grunted, getting up, only to push a bowl full of soup into Tobirama’s hands a few moments later. “Eat. I want you to properly come through the winter.” He said, “Sometimes you have to push through these things. I want you to be healthy, Tobirama.” 

If this had been two months ago, Tobirama wouldn’t have believed him. But there was a certain sincerity in his voice that made it credible. It was nice, in a way, to have someone in this compound care for him, even if it was only a little - the gnawing pit in his stomach lightened minimally and as he swallowed the strong chicken broth, chewing on some meat, his insides warmed. 

He ignored how his heart was beating faster as well.

Senju Tobirama, as Hikaku got to know him, was a whole experience in himself. He was a fascinating creature indeed, starting from his unique and exotic looks to the curious details of his personality - anyone not too blinded by the fierce hatred intertwining their clans wouldn’t be able to do anything but watch him with a strange curiosity. Hikaku didn’t exclude himself from this as well. But he wasn’t one to interfere - he kept to himself. Usually.

He had been at Madara’s side for over a decade, knowing his Lord better than he probably even knew his own family. And as soon as Hikaku had set his eyes on the Senju, he knew. There was no way he’d not choose Tobirama in the whole tangle of politics and strategies - Madara was very human, despite what tales did tell and he, most of all, was a man of curiosity and possessiveness. He thrived in gaining, in a way a collector would gain in acquiring rare pieces to expand his horizons -  and despite Tobirama being a full human, an individual with wants and needs, he had been acquired like a bric-à-brac to put on a shelf. 

It had never been Madara’s intention, Hikaku knew. To dehumanize, that is. It was something that just happened unconsciously, in the rush of fierce curiosity and greediness and perhaps there was some aspect of revenge that came into play as well. Madara could’ve chosen someone that would’ve been more compatible with him; but that wasn’t how he functioned. It was the game within him, the craving for challenge versus the whisper of responsibility. He was a great leader, but terrible to himself.

In truth, Hikaku’s thoughts didn’t particularly wander towards his Lord in recent times. Madara didn’t need him all that often and Hikaku knew that he got by fine without him - he was simply the voice of reason in difficult decisions or the devil’s advocate whenever Izuna’s fiery temper had wavered Madraa into a hardlined train of thought again. Not that he blamed Izuna, he simply was an Uchiha - he lacked nuances and foresight. 

No, Hikaku's mental capacity was oddly spent on his Lord’s husband. Because Tobirama was fading. 

Anyone with a keen eye could see it. It had been obvious from the very beginning that ripping Tobirama from his familiar environment would tear open wounds, and it had also become very obvious that nothing had been done to tend to these wounds in the time he was at the compound. Open and bleeding they slowly drained him dry of life and it was a terrible sight to see. Tobirama was thin, pale and quiet - more than he had been, anyways. There was no joy in his face, nor was there upset. Most of the time he just looked awfully lost. Whenever Hikaku saw him, when he was on a visit in the main house, he seemed even more like a ghost in his own skin. It made him frown. Didn’t Madara notice? But his Lord was busy most of the time, desensitized to the view maybe. Too distracted to notice. 

Hikaku kept to himself, but then again, sometimes he didn’t - he was selfish in a way most Uchiha were. He found the young man on the deck in the gardens - it was dark and he had been in his Lord’s office all day. As expected, Tobirama noticed him before he even said anything; the slight twitch of his head gave him away.

“I haven’t seen you in a while, Tobirama-sama.” Hikaku said politely, settling next to him, “How are you faring?”

The other seemed to think for an awfully long time before he responded, “I am faring well enough, Hikaku-san.”

Hikaku cocked his head. It was an answer he hadn’t expected. “You remembered my name.” He stated the obvious. He had been fully prepared to re-introduce himself.

“I have a good memory. Your chakra is easy to remember. It has a certain… uniqueness.” He made no further elaboration. 

That's right, he was a sensor, he remembered. Hikaku lowered his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Tobirama, unintentionally, had probably said one of the nicest things he had heard in years to him. People didn't notice him all too often, as he shadowed Madara constantly and never truly made an effort to socialize. He was simply too busy, married to his work. He felt flattered, even though he knew he shouldn't. 

"And what is this uniqueness, if you don't mind me asking? You have left me curious now." He asked. Perhaps he truly wanted to know, but maybe he just wanted to engage the other into conversation. 

Tobirama turned and it seemed as if he was truly acknowledging his presence only now. Sometimes Hikaku wondered if he was Hashirama’s brother at all; his features appeared as if sculpted by a master and with the addition of the white hair and the red eyes it seemed as if Tobirama had escaped out of old tales - a creature from the mind of a skilled author. For quite some time he had lost his religion, his trust in Amaterasu. But looking at Tobirama, he could easily imagine finding it again.

Blessed and cursed at the same time.

His eyes danced as he seemed to be thinking. “It is difficult to describe chakra to someone that cannot feel it in its intensity as I do,” He said, “But if I had to explain it, I would say that Uchiha chakra in general feels intense and hot, like fire. It makes sense that it does, as this clan is gifted with the fire element. Yours feels more calm… like embers.” 

Hikaku had never thought about how his chakra felt before. But he found that he liked the simile - he never had been hot headed, more so quiet and reserved. Making friends when he was younger had been difficult and so he clung, clung desperately until someone hadn’t let go. But when Madara had decided to keep, then he kept. And Hikaku had been one of these things. He was grateful for it now, but he could see how the process of Madara's possessiveness was a scary experience. 

“I think I like that.” He confessed, as he watched Tobirama resettle his gaze into the gardens. 

And for a while, they stood there in silence. Until it truly got too cold for Hikaku. Tobirama must’ve stood there for a long while, judging by the aggressive redness in his cheeks and nose. 

“I know this is very difficult for you, Tobirama-sama, and I cannot claim even in the slightest that I understand. I can only appeal to you that you give our Lord a chance. Madara-sama has a big heart and I am sure you will fit into it fine. When he tries, I can only ask you to try to not shut him out.” He said quietly. 

He carefully considered the other’s handsome side profile - he blinked slowly a few times in reaction to his plea, white lashes mesmerizing Hikaku in a strange way. His Lord chose well, he couldn’t help but think.

“You and I are similar, Hikaku-san, did you know?” Tobirama uttered and again it hadn’t been what Hikaku expected. 

“I unfortunately can’t say, Tobirama-sama. I don’t think I know you well enough to judge that.” He answered honestly.

“Then you will have to get to know me well enough.” The other responded and Hikaku didn’t know if that was an invitation or not.

On his way home, walking through the dark alleys of the compound, cold wind grabbing at his hair and dense snow soaking through his boots he thought about the conversation, again and again, but without ever really making sense of it. 

Madara made sure to be there, in the evenings, when Tobirama would sit in the kitchen by the warm oven. It was a time where they both seemed to be the most settled - he was exhausted by the day's work and Tobirama… Well, he didn’t quite know.

And that was the worst of it, he thought, that they had been married for three months and he didn’t know anything about his husband except for what he had been told by Hashirama. And the thing about the tea. But Tobirama’s shell, that he had been so determined to break, had turned out to be more than a shell. It was a fully bricked, sturdy wall. 

But he wouldn’t back down. Not when he hadn’t even properly tried. So he sat by him and endured the silence, just so Tobirama wouldn’t stiffen anymore when he was in close proximity. Sometimes he’d manage to speak to him, but he found that he hadn’t quite found the right anchor yet.

“Do you drink?” Madara asked one night as he had scuffled around the kitchen for a while. Tobirama looked up.

“Occasionally. Though it has been a while.” He responded, which Madara didn’t take as a refusal. He had heated something on the stove, stirring in a large pot, before ladling some of the liquid into two cups.

“What is it?” Tobirama said with a frown, as he accepted the beverage, sniffing on it with skepticism. It was kind of endearing.

“Mulled wine. Some odd years ago a traveler came from the far west. He brought along spices, wine and the recipe for this beverage. It’s best to drink it heated, during winter times.” He took a sip himself and the warm, sweet and sour liquid coated his mouth, warming his throat and stomach. The strong and comforting tastes of honey, cinnamon and other more rare spices danced on his tongue. 

He watched curiously as Tobirama sipped carefully at his cup. Madara had to bite back a chuckle as he saw the wild display of confusion and surprise on the others' faces as he processed the taste. Quickly, Tobirama took another gulp. “I like it.” He said determinedly, his lips tainted by the red of the wine. 

“I’m glad,” Sometimes Madara was grateful Tobirama couldn’t see that well, that way he wasn’t able to tell how much he was staring at him, “I noticed you often sit here, in the kitchen. Did you do that at home, too?”

Madara had expected Tobirama to stiffen and draw back, as any questions towards his old home usually were a bold move. But Tobirama simply blinked and then turned his head towards him.

“Yes,” He answered, cradling the cup in his hands, “In the winters we usually had to conserve the heat. People assume that just because we live in a forest we can just take as much wood as we need to burn and heat our homes. But that isn't the case. Some kinds of wood burn differently and therefore there are a few that aren’t suited for heating. It also is about respect. We only take as much from our forest as we really need.” He shifted a little, “The kitchen is always heated, day in and day out. It gives me a certain comfort.”

“I see,” Madara replied, processing that Tobirama had actually given him a genuine answer, “Well, you are always welcome to sit in the kitchen. I didn’t mean to imply anything else.”

“I didn’t think you did.” Tobirama reassured him.

And the evening passed gently like this, with them sitting in the small kitchen by the warm oven, talking occasionally and drinking the mulled wine. The more Madara poked, the more he eventually got out of Tobirama - he was indeed able to and liked to read, which Madara noted in the back of his mind. He also admitted to being interested in research and science, though Madara wasn’t able to pry out what exactly he liked to research. Tobirama’s sudden openness in relation to what the conversations had been like before surprised him. Madara faulted the spiced wine that his spouse really did enjoy.

At some point he turned his head again and the red of his eyes were glassy, the muscles in his face slack as his head wobbled a little. Madara scolded himself a little for not noticing earlier, but he wasn’t feeling all too guilty - if getting Tobirama drunk meant he got to be a little closer to him, then so be it. But it was late and he didn’t want the other to curse him the next day for a headache.

“I think that’s enough for today, it’s quite late,” He said and saw how Tobirama nodded weakly in agreement, “Let’s get you to bed.”

As he helped Tobirama up and the other stumbled a little over his own feet he couldn’t help but wonder. They had drunk a little, but Madara didn’t really feel the effects of the alcohol yet. Tobirama was roughly of the same height as him and even though he had gotten concerningly slimmer in the weeks past, he shouldn’t have too many problems holding his liquor. Either he was a lightweight, or he really didn’t drink all that often. But why wouldn’t a man, who supposedly had stayed in the compound all his life, be accustomed to drinking

Greeting ceremonies, welcoming guests, clan celebrations, anniversaries. Those were all occasions where liquor flowed like rivers - Tobirama would’ve likely participated in all of them. It was just another piece in the puzzle that didn’t add up towards Tobirama’s “backstory”. 

Gently holding him by the back and elbow, Madara guided his husband through the dark hallways of the main house. Tobirama swayed a little occasionally and so Madara kept an eye on him until they finally reached the spare bedroom that had been Tobirama’s ever since he arrived. It was as if he had just moved in: clean, with no clutter lying around. The futon was perfectly made and the only signs that someone actually inhabited the room were the small stack of books that Tobirama seemed to have nicked from the library and a half burned down candle in a candle holder. For a second, it made his heart clench. 

Madara pushed him towards the futon. “There you go. Lie down.”

Tobirama flopped back onto the soft fabric. His hair, which had grown a few inches in the past months and now was just shy of touching his shoulders, spilled over the pillow - unfocused, half-lidded red eyes stared up at Madara, as his hands settled next to his head. 

“Are you going to fuck me now, Madara-sama?” His voice was quiet, but definitely loud enough.

A vicious frown settled on Madara’s face, as the sudden and unexpected question his stomach. He remembered a few months back, when a deathly pale and stiff Tobirama asked if Madara would want to consummate the marriage. He had seemed afraid, downright terrified, back then, but he didn’t seem afraid now - his face seemed to be settled in stoic acceptance and mild curiosity.

Had he anticipated this? Madara thought as he swallowed heavily. Had he feared that I would change my mind all this time? Or has he looked through me better than I did?

Madara couldn’t deny that it was a temptation to a certain degree. Tobirama wouldn’t say no, he knew and he could fuck him now, on this futon, quenching the depersonalizing, confusing thirst he had felt for him ever since he first laid eyes on him. But it would feel foul, wrong, malign to take him now, when Tobirama would only do it out of obligation, of fear for what would happen if he actually denied him. Madara wanted his husband to want him for him - not because of some duress standing behind it. Of the position of power he had over him. Taking advantage. That wasn’t something that Madara would ever consider in delicate situations like these; on top of everything, Tobirama was drunk. His sudden crude language was evidence to this.

“No, Tobirama,” He said, “I won’t.”

The younger held his gaze for a small moment, then turned his head to the side - his eyes staring into nothing. Madara waited for an answer, but it didn’t come. 

“Sleep well.” Madara muttered and patted the futon, when suddenly he felt something hard beneath the fabric.

Surprised and curious, his hand slipped under the bedding, grabbing for the object. When his fingers closed around a handle, he knew immediately what it was - he wouldn’t mistake it for anything else in the world, given how many he’s had in his hand before.

It was a kunai.

Chapter Text

VII.

Let us drink then, my raven of Cairo.
Is that the wind dying? O no;

It is only two devils, that blow
Through a murderer’s bones, to and fro,
In the ghosts’ moonshine.
[Wolfram’s Song (from Death’s Jest Book, Act v) - Thomas Lovell Beddoes]

A standard issue kunai, nothing special. A leaf-shaped wrought blade, a handle wrapped with cotton for a better grip. A loop  at the end for attachment on belts and vests. From its design and its little details it had to be a Senju kunai, forged from the deep-wood smithies - he’d recognize them anywhere as memories of hundreds of these weapons lying on battlefields played in his mind. It was sharper than hells, as he let his finger glide along the blade. His skin broke, small pearls of blood pressing to the surface. Little by little he turned it in the candle’s flickering light, to find anything, anything that could tell him more; spilling little secrets. 

This kunai had been a secret. Tobirama’s secret. The act of rebellion Madara had waited for ever since they got married. Because he knew that the Senju simply couldn’t be a sheltered, shy young man - he hadn’t believed that from the very beginning. But the true and clear evidence for this had been missing, just until now. The kunai’s weight in his hand felt heavier than it should - and he remembered the letter from Hashirama and the weight of its meaning that had stacked on top of it. Was this similar? 

His finger slid over the steel, blood pearls slightly smearing the surface - but a kunai shouldn’t know anything else but blood. Otherwise it was unblemished, flawless. A blade that was either new or well maintained. He wondered which of those two options were accurate: because whether it was one or the other, the truth behind it would change the paths that lay ahead. 

If it was a new blade, then it could have a harmless meaning - a newly acquired kunai, brought by Tobirama out of fear. Fear of the new clan he had married into, fear for his life. It would pain Madara to know that even with peace negotiations and a marriage Tobirama had found it necessary to arm himself; that his mistrust in the Uchiha clan cut so deeply that he didn’t think they’d keep to the treaty. But in a way Madara would’ve understood. 

Were it an old, used, but well maintained blade, however, the weapon promised danger. Threat. Disaster. It would mean it was a blade used by a careful and organized shinobi. It would mean Tobirama was a shinobi. Madara tried to picture his husband wielding the weapon, but the imagery failed him. He seemed so frail and vulnerable - had it been manipulation all along?

Madara should be angry about the weapon and the breaking of rules. And he was, naturally -  a familiar cold feeling of betrayal and rage crawling up his arms and spine, but the usual ignition to explosion failed to come. Instead it lingered, frostily, beneath his skin, chilling his bones. Instead of blinding fury, calm calculation took over - should he confront Tobirama about this? He should. He would. But for now, he opened the drawer of his desk, laying the weapon carefully inside and shutting it with a firm push.

Limbo (n) 

lim·bo

I. a place or state of restraint or confinement 

II. a place or state of neglect or oblivion 

III. an intermediate or transitional place or state 

IV. a state of uncertainty 

Tobirama immediately knew that something was wrong when he woke up. Not only one, but multiple things. His mouth was dry and gummy at the same time, the foulness of the alcohol still so prominent on his breath that he himself could smell it. He licked his equally dry lips and the sour taste of wine hit his tongue - his head felt like it was stuffed with way too much cotton that was now pressing against the inner walls of his skull. When he finally pried his eyes open even the faint winter morning light felt too overbearing; he was disoriented and confused, only recognizing the small room after a few moments. The state of his body and mind wasn’t a hangover, but it was close enough to one.

And after only a few seconds Tobirama knew: his kunai was gone. He kept it in a specific place under the futon, near the pillow. Ready to hand whenever he should need it - for example when Izuna decided that he’s had enough of him. Tobirama’s heart beat a mile a minute and panic overcame him, clogging his throat. Who could’ve taken it? He faintly remembered how he had pathetically been brought to bed by Madara. Memories of his drunken inappropriateness assaulted his mind and he didn’t know what felt worse. The humiliation or the sheer anxiety of finding his kunai gone.

Did Madara find it? That would mean the end of him, Tobirama was sure. He had broken the one specific rule that the clanhead had warned him about in the very beginning. It would be unforgivable. How could he pretend to be harmless, without any ill-intent towards Madara and the Uchiha clan if he secretly kept weapons? The horror and the gravity of his situation sunk in. He had put the whole peace between their clans at risk and for what? For a single blade? He felt nauseous and he jumped up, hurriedly stumbling into the restroom that was located in a separate part of the house. 

Falling to his knees the contents of whatever had accumulated in his stomach emptied into the low toilet. He was sweating, a cold flush running over his spine as another wave of nausea hit him. For almost half an hour he clung pathetically in the cold washroom, vomiting occasionally - he didn’t know if the alcohol or the panic was to blame, but it didn’t quite matter anyway. Only when he was sure that the nausea had passed he dragged himself back, the cotton in his head now replaced by a piercing and agonizing headache. 

Tobirama laid on his futon, contemplating his situation in misery. He came to the conclusion that it couldn’t have been Madara that had found the kunai, even though it would’ve made sense given the situation that happened the evening before - somehow he was sure that if his husband had found the weapon, he would’ve already dragged him outside of the main house by his hair to sleep with the pigs. The wrath that Uchiha Madara could display was unlike any other - he never really wanted to marry Tobirama anyway, so his breaking of the rules would be the perfect excuse. And so he ruled Madara out.

But no one else knew of the kunai. Except for… Izuna. 

Tobirama took a deep breath. Izuna was at home, he knew. The other had run out of ideas to avoid being in the main house, but they luckily rarely ran into each other. Izuna could’ve easily snuck into his room, his instincts had been weakened by his inebriation and so he could’ve slept through it. Izuna also knew where he kept the kunai and would have every reason to steal it. He hated Tobirama’s guts and didn’t trust him from a mile away, naturally he didn’t want him to have a weapon. 

But all this thinking led nowhere except down a spiral of despair and panic. He was quite sure that it had been Izuna that had taken the kunai and he didn’t see any other choice but to confront him about it. It was a kunai Tobirama had brought from home; he would quite like to have it back. He realized his chances of actually getting it back were slim, but…

He had to try. 

Hashirama was surprised that they had made it this far. 

In the beginning of fall he had already calculated that their supplies would be strained this winter and that had been even without the Uchiha delegation visiting them. Now, towards the bitter end of the harsh season the food slowly ran out. He had to do something as the clan head, to guarantee that the Senju wouldn’t starve. He had already asked the Uzumaki, but they were only able to give little. Now he sat at the table with his wife, staring at a cup of tea. 

Three months, two weeks and four days had passed ever since Tobirama left. His place at the table remained empty.

“What is it, Hashirama?” Mito asked softly, her hand rubbing his back.

Hastily he tore himself from his thoughts. “Oh, not to worry, Mito.” He replied and grinned, “I’m simply… concerned. About our situation.”

Mito looked at him pensively and, as always, saw right through his smile. She always did. “If you are this worried, why haven’t you done something about it already?”

“I have,” He admitted, “I already requested aid from your family. But the Uzumaki don’t have many supplies themselves. It only gave us a slight buffer.”

Mito threw him a gaze and he knew that in this moment she thought that he was stupid. “What about Tobirama?” She asked, “The Uchiha will have plenty of stock. They’ve rarely had problems in the winter.”

“I…” Hashirama began and hesitated, “I haven’t… written to him ever since he left.” Even saying it felt like he had spit out his own foulness. Guilt was weighing heavily at his shoulders.

Mito inhaled sharply. “ Hashirama.” Her tone betrayed disappointment, “Why not?!”

Yes, why not? “After he left the situation here became so difficult so quickly! And I just was… so overwhelmed by work that I only snapped out of it after weeks. After that I felt like–” He cut himself off. There was no excuse. He had abandoned his brother. His little brother was all alone among Uchiha - he didn’t even know if he was alright or if the Uchiha were treating him well. After he had torn himself from the work-loadened daze he had realized that it had been way too long; and that he should’ve written a letter weeks before. But guilt had overrun him. What if Tobirama didn’t want the letter anymore? What if he didn’t want to hear from him at all by then? The fear that his own negligence had estranged him from his otouto had been so painful that he continued not writing. Now actually being confronted by his careless behavior with Mito’s additional disappointment made his insides twist painfully. It was miserable.

Suddenly, Mito began hitting him - her flat hand meeting his shoulder and head, her face furious.

“Ow, ow! Mito!” He exclaimed, raising his own hands to shield himself from the strikes, even though they weren’t particularly strong. 

“You go and write your brother a letter right now, you coward!” Mito yelled, “And in the same letter you will ask for supplies!” Another hit landed.

“Ow– yes, Mito, I will!” Hashirama answered and with that he scrambled, leaving the dining room for his office.

His tea went cold.

Finding Izuna had been easier than Tobirama anticipated it would be. The Uchiha was quite determined not to run into him at every cost and whenever he even sensed him close he would vanish - so Tobirama thought it would take him longer to actually have a moment where both of them were alone.

But two days after he found his kunai missing a chance opened itself up. Izuna was in the gardens, chopping wood for the main house. Usually a servant would do these tasks as Tobirama had observed, but the young Uchiha always seemed to have some sort of excess energy to spare which he had to let out in some way. 

In the distance, in the midst of the snow behind a shed, he saw the schemes of Izuna with the ax in his hand, doing powerful swings that split the wood easily - the loud noise of the breaking and splintering echoing through the otherwise silent garden. There was a sense of doom overcoming him, the rhythmic, threatening hack, hack, hack of Izuna’s work pounding in his brain. But he pushed through it, telling himself that it was too late to back out now.

When he actually came closer, into a sphere where Izuna would soon notice his presence, it came to him that he actually didn’t know what to say. Or how to even address his brother-in-law. He had been so focused in avoiding Izuna’s attention that it hadn’t come up at all - but here he was, feet carrying him relentlessly until he stood in close proximity. 

Hack.

Izuna had registered him, there was no way he hadn’t. Tobirama swallowed.

Hack. 

“Izuna-san.” He opted for the safe choice.

Hack.

Izuna didn’t seem to falter in his work and for a moment Tobirama thought he was being willfully ignored. After a moment or two passed - hack - he opened his mouth, to address the other again, but then the constant shuffling of wood stopped. 

“What do you want?” His tone seemed carefully neutral, but Tobirama knew inside he didn’t feel that way.

“I–” He began and stumbled over what he wanted to say next. The sudden silence of the garden, without the disturbance of the splintering wood, seemed oppressing.

“I know that you know about my kunai.” He simply blurted out. It sounded colder than he wanted it to. 

Izuna simply snorted in response. “With it being pressed against my fucking throat? Obviously.”

“Did you take it?” Tobirama asked and tried to keep the accusation from his tone. Provocation wouldn’t lead him anywhere, especially not with someone who had an explosive temper like Izuna. This was a delicate topic of conversation to begin with.

“Take your wimpy kunai? No, I didn’t.” And with that he continued pushing wood onto the block, swinging his ax that he had picked up again.

Hack.

The flat out denial irritated Tobirama. It had to have been Izuna, every other possibility seemed too unlikely. And the way he just dismissed Tobirama like a simple servant not worth his time riled him - not to mention that he insulted the kunai. It had been a gift from Hashirama, on Tobirama's seventeenth birthday. They didn’t have much back then, Tobirama remembered - his birthday was in February and they’d just come out of another hard winter season. Hashirama had been apologetic that his gift had been a simple kunai, but Tobirama had loved it anyway.

“It isn’t ‘wimpy’,” He bit, “It is quite important to me.”

Hack.

“I don’t care. I didn’t take your fucking kunai.”

“It was a gift. From my family. If you even have any decency then you’ll at least admit to taking it!” And oh, he didn’t mean to snap. He shouldn’t have said that, he knew immediately after it came out of his mouth.

The hacking stopped immediately. “Decency? How fucking dare you?! ” Izuna spat, “Have you ever thought about how unwelcome you are here, Senju? Have you ever considered that any Uchiha who’d find a kunai within your possessions would take it?” Tobirama saw how Izuna dropped the ax into the snow, coming closer. He immediately took a step back, but Izuna pressed forward.

“Because you are a Senju rat and no one here would want a weapon in your close proximity. Because any Uchiha with a sound mind would know it would be an invitation to get their throat slit and eyes scraped out!” Izuna was now so close that if Tobirama reached out even a little, he’d touch him immediately.

His chakra felt hot and agitated, just short of flowing over. A pit of magma, boiling dangerously beneath the surface only waiting to flow over and burn everything in its path. Earth and stone; lava pouring out into streets, fields and houses. Tobirama’s heart beat fast, not only in fear, but mainly in anger. 

How was this fair? He had really tried so far, had tried his very best given all the circumstances - he was foreign here, among people that only months ago would’ve killed him if they ever laid eyes on him and knew about his family affiliation. Without any hesitation, killed on sight. And now that peace was negotiated and he was the token lamb placed within a pack of wolves, he had to be the one that needed to prove his innocence? If his innocence would ever even be recognized as such; so far it seemed that no matter what he tried, he’d always be the demon, the devil. His throat constricted in an unusual fury. He truly did hate the Uchiha. 

“How can I not want a safeguard?! I know where I am and what you people think of me! I never chose this!” He yelled and the words just tumbled out of him, “I have been chosen! I never had any say in this at all!” He clenched his teeth, trying to step back. “ But I know. I know why I have been chosen. You think of me as a deviant for being who I am, for being a Senju… but maybe you should ask your brother why he looks at me that way!” 

He realized then and there he fucked up. Izuna grabbed his arm, fingers clawing painfully into his sleeve and consequently his flesh and in a panicked reaction, Tobirama looked up.

Meeting red eyes.

Dark, RED, dark, RED, dark, RED, dark, RED–

Getting caught in the sharingan - the transitional period of being fine one moment and being sucked into the most torturous and deadliest genjutsu known to men the next - is almost worse than the jutsu itself. Almost. Because at this point you still fully know what is happening, except that you are rapidly, helplessly losing sense of it. There is no stopping it, no pulling out of the maelstrom of malign chaos. You are powerless to the unknown fate that will befall you and that makes you fear, fear so much for your life that you can only try and scream in horror. But you can’t - at this point the sharingan will already slowly slither and spread into your brain.

Getting caught in the sharingan is like being a heavy stone that has been thrown into the vast ocean - you are sinking and sinking into the dark and cold depths of water and as you go down, if there is still some will in you, you will try to fight it. But it is useless to fight what is always without fight. You have no chance. You never have. You never had. 

And while you are sinking it will start to feel like your blood is foreign, crawling and wandering in streams under your skin and it is as if you are wearing a second you. That you are your own alien, a body trying to reject itself and it’s twisting, sick, as it feels like you are trying to violently break out of your own chest.  

Getting caught in the sharingan feels like your bones are constricting and with that reality is already twisting - your mind shaken as it is pushed into what can only be described as the darkest pits of human imagination. Because in the end, it is all in your own head; the torture, the horror and the evil.

And it is there where you will end up after you have sunken in fully. In the wicked dimensions of the intelligent mind - sharp and cutting, cornered and maze-like, despairing and sinister. There is no escape on your own; nothing here will happen like you want to. You're not you anymore. You are the design of the sharingan.

Giggles. Laughter. It’s Itama.

“Tobira!” He yells and the laughter is still in his voice. And it echoes in this world, echoes from far away. “Tobira!”

“Itama?” He can’t help but ask. Where is he? He cannot see his brother, but his voice he’d never mistake. “Where are you?”

The laughter continues, as if he had said something funny. “I am dead, Tobira! Isn’t that fun?” 

Linen cloth, linen cloth, linen cloth - a nose under the fabric, hollows - his eyes should be there - linen cloth, linen cloth– It is pulled, by an unknown force and it reveals him, his little brother, rotten and in decay. A corpse unrecognizable, the smell unbearable; the foul odor of death piercing into his nose. It is a smell no one ever forgets. This had been a child of eight years once, but it had lain beneath the earth for more than that. The sight is unbearable, but he physically can’t look away.

“It’s your fault, Tobira!” Itama laughs, “Did you know?”

“Did you know?” It’s another voice, a more serious voice and he knows it belongs to Kawa. He sees him, pale, blue and drained of blood, leaning over the decomposing corpse of Itama. “Did you know the Uchiha killed me with ninety-four kunai stabs? I’d been alive for sixty-seven of them.”

Blood is running from his mouth and it won’t stop, it's dripping on Itama and the white teeth are stained red. He’s eleven years old. He’ll always be eleven years old. “They overkilled me, the Uchiha. It’s your fault!”

“It’s your fault!” Itama cackles, “They defiled my corpse after they cut my throat by carving their symbol into my flesh!”

He can’t look away, the horrific display of what had been his brothers. He can’t speak, cannot deny that it had been his fault. He can’t breathe, his lungs won’t let him. He tries and tries and tries, but he’s suffocating. On the lack of air? On guilt? He cannot comprehend what he feels, the torture of his soul as they chant - yourfaultyourfaultyourfault - is beyond what could ever be described in words.

The pain he feels is unbearable - he knows it should’ve been him and he wants to tell them, but can’t. Because in the end he was alive and they weren’t.

“You disappoint me.” Hashirama, “You aren’t my brother. You never have been. You don’t belong to the Senju.”

I know, I know, I know - he wants to reassure  - I deserve nothing and yet you gave, please love me a little longer. He wants to plead. But his throat is sewn shut and nothing comes out. He claws at the seams, ripping his neck open and bloody; it is suicide, the death of self. But it is what he should get, what he should do. In the end he is nothing but a demon.

His throat is open and he screams, gurgles through the gushing of his own blood.

He slept. He wakes.

Chapter Text

VIII. 

Dear Tobira, 

It has been a while since we've spoken and I apologize greatly for not writing to you sooner, otouto. I can only pray that you are still willing to hear from me and that you can forgive me for neglecting you so. How are you? I hope that you are well…

"Aniki!" 

Izuna seemed out of breath when he stumbled into his office and his complexion was pale, the muscles in face wrought tight. Stress displayed in eyes that usually held a playful twinkle. It was the face he made when he had done something he shouldn't and this something was more than the breaking of a vase. Something that actually worried him. 

"Aniki." He was gripping the frame of the door, his knuckles white. 

"Izuna." Madara greeted him and he already laid aside his pen, "What is it?" 

He saw his brother swallow heavily. "I didn't mean to." The first thing he said was, "We just got into a fight and he… provoked me. I snapped. I didn't mean to! But he won't wake up."

Madara didn't need to ask who 'he' was. There was little doubt. Because there was no one on the compound Izuna would get into a serious fight with except Tobirama. He rose, frown fixing itself on his face as he joined his brother in the door. 

"Lead the way. And tell me what exactly happened." And with that they hurried and Madara couldn't help but worry. 

…we are doing fine so far, here on the compound. Tōka has come back for the winter months and she misses you dearly. As do I… 

There was something utterly wrong and horrible to witness him like this and it was stirring his chest in an uncomfortable, sick way. 

Madara had seen the effect of the sharingan many times, too many to even think about counting them and while the sharingan truly never had a positive effect on anyone there had only been a handful of instances where he had seen something like this. But it had never felt quite this terrible. 

Usually, when people awoke from the sharingan that hadn't been set out to kill them, they were disorientated, distressed and in pain. Especially when it was Izuna's sharingan, as he favored bringing out people's worst fears and nightmares out of their own consciousness instead of creating them on his own. This was entirely different. 

Tobirama was splayed out in the snow like a thrown away doll, his body limp, his head turned to the side and his eyes closed. There was blood trickling slowly out of his nose, spasms shook his limbs and even though the lids were shut, Madara could see rapid eye movements beneath them. The red splatters from his nose were stuck to the snow, surrounding his head like a cursed halo. 

"Kami." Madara cursed as he sank to his knees next to his husband and he looked even worse up close. He pressed his fingers into the flesh of his neck, to feel his pulse - it was there and beating fast, violently. This close he was able to hear his soft whimpers. 

“Izuna,” He stressed, “This is your sharingan. Dissolve it already!”

“I did!” Izuna bit out and his voice was laced with panic, “But he still won’t wake up! I think… I think he sunk too deep, I don’t know. I haven’t used my sharingan ever since I was injured, my control was sloppy– I–”

“Save it!” Madara barked as he hurriedly put both arms underneath Tobirama’s back and knees, lifting him. He was frighteningly light. “Perhaps I can break it, but he has to warm up first. He’s already cold!” 

He carried Tobirama as fast as he could, there was a limp body in his arms and ironically it was the closest he and Tobirama physically had ever been - but he couldn’t focus, the only thought in his mind being to somehow save his husband from certain death. Sinking too deep into the sharingan… it could mean that he’d never wake up again. Without any real plan he barged through the backdoor and walked straight into his own chambers, Izuna only a step or two behind him. 

“More blankets, Izuna, now!” He commanded and his brother obeyed immediately, vanishing into the hallway. 

He tore the wet and snow soaked obi from Tobirama’s shoulders. His futon was freshly made but now he disturbed it by tucking the young man underneath, burying him under his blanket. Shortly after, Izuna returned with more blankets and quilts. Madara knelt beside Tobirama and focused, trying to break Izuna’s sharingan and to bring him back from whatever nightmares he experienced while being under. He swallowed. It wouldn’t be easy, he knew, as Izuna was a strong shinobi. And so he only hoped, trying to trust his own abilities. 

It took him over an hour. But finally, Tobirama breathed normally again, his nose no longer bleeding, his body no longer twitching. Madara was utterly exhausted. And now, there was only anger left.

“Have you gone mad? Lost your mind? What were you thinking?!” He hissed at Izuna in the hallway, his younger brother pushing himself onto the wall, ducking his head as he cornered him. 

“I wasn’t, okay?!” Izuna bit back, “We fought, that’s it! He fucking provoked me and I just lost it!”

“You are a shinobi! You should have more control than that! What did he say that was so utterly offensive to you that you felt the need to put my husband and, might I add, a member of our own clan under the sharingan?” He searched the others' eyes intensely, “Hm?!”

“He accused me of stealing his stupid kunai! Said it was a family gift. Yes, he owns a kunai, by the way, you always act like he's so innocent!” Izuna spit, “But I didn’t and I won’t be called a thief! What’s worse is that he insulted you!”

The kunai. It was about something so silly as a kunai. Tobirama might as well have died because of a small dagger; if Madara' s concentration over the past hour had faltered only even a little. Madara took a deep breath and suddenly all the anger he felt dissolved into a painful weariness. “I know about the kunai. I have it.” He said breathlessly, perhaps more to himself. Izuna did hear it anyway.

“Oh…” There was a heavy moment of silence, “Well, he soiled your honor. I couldn’t ignore that, it just flipped a switch.”

Madara frowned, turning his head back towards his brother who was staring stubbornly to the side, working his jaw. It was the late afternoon and darkness had settled in, painting the hallway in dull and oppressing grays. “Soiled my honor?” Madara repeated.

It was Izuna’s turn to inhale deeply. “He said that if I think of him as deviant for being a Senju, I should…” He almost choked on his words, as if they were the worst he had ever spoken, “I should ask you why you look at him ‘that way’.”

Izuna’s eyes nervously found his. And Madara didn’t know what to feel. There was only emptiness. 

Should he feel caught, for whatever he had done the past weeks? Ashamed, for wanting Tobirama? Angry, for wanting Tobirama? Foolish, for thinking, knowing, that Tobirama was more than an ordinary young man and yet still assuming he wouldn’t notice him so blatantly staring? Guilt, for snatching him from his family? Yet none of these emotions did win the fight in him, instead he felt tired. And defeated. What use would it be to lie, especially to his younger brother? The one person in the world he trusted the most and nowadays sometimes struggled to recognize. Madara didn’t even want to think about what that could mean. The thought was too scary. 

“He isn’t wrong. Perhaps for implying that he is deviant and therefore I am, but that is more a title that you put on him, did you not?” He said calmly, voice carefully neutral.  

Izuna’s face displayed confusion until he realized what had been said; Madara expected him to get angry, to explode into his face, but it failed to appear. Instead, Izuna frowned deeply, his eyes searching for a lie in Madara's. No answer came and yet Madara patiently waited for one - as if he had just confessed to something terrible and wrath, disownment was only moments away. The seconds trickled by and the hallway grew even darker; the atmosphere heavier. He decided then to leave his younger brother alone as he seemingly had much to think about. He turned. 

“Did you know we killed his younger brothers?” Izuna suddenly said, but his voice was so silent that Madara almost didn’t hear it. Almost.

He didn’t respond as he didn’t know how to - with realization an icy feeling sank into his stomach. 

“Not we, but we as Uchiha?” And now Madara’s heart began to feel heavy, “I saw them, in his hallucinations. They were only kids.” Izuna hesitated, his words flattering from their usual confidence, "I didn't know." 

And with that, without saying anything in response, Madara couldn’t bear it anymore and, like a coward, fled, instinctively to the side of an unconscious Tobirama. 

…there are so many things here that remind me of you, Tobira, and it only reinforces how much I miss you. And how important you are to me. If they don’t treat you like the treasure that you are, I will come get you immediately. I promise. You will always be my otouto…

Tobirama came to again in a room unfamiliar to him. The futon he was laying on was broad and soft and comfortable, fine pieces of cherry wood furniture that clearly were in use and not only bits of decorations occupied the space. Much other than that Tobirama couldn't comprehend, as his head felt like it was going to split open - a wave of pain had him whimper and curl up. He was hot, sweating profusely under countless blankets. 

"Don't move. Sleep. It's better." Someone said and there was the sensation of a cool, wet towel in his forehead. The contrast of the cold wrap against his hot skin made him sigh and with that, his heavy eyelids slid shut again.

Tobirama knew fever and was no stranger to dangerously high fevers either. He had suffered from an illness as a young teen that his father was sure he’d die from. For weeks he’d been bedridden, losing a significant amount of weight due to the fever that never broke in fourteen days - his skin and the white of his eyes yellow. At some points during these weeks Tobirama did wish he’d just simply fall asleep and never wake up again; it was torture. This was worse. 

His clothing was soaked, drenched by his own sweat one minute - the next he was shivering and shaking, so cold that he desperately wrestled into the blankets again. His head was in so much pain that there was little to nothing that could distract him from it. When he finally managed to sleep it was a broken slumber that didn’t last longer than an hour. He was depleted of any energy, the bones in his body felt heavy and aching - it was agony. He couldn’t think of anything else. He only knew pain. 

He was faintly aware of the other man in the room that was there most of the time - not that he was able to accurately tell the time anyway. Everything just simply got mushed up into one continuous loop of sleeping and waking in pain. Was it day? Was it night? Time skipped like it was nothing and so, most of the time, he didn’t really care about the other that occasionally wiped his face with cold cloth or tried to get him to drink herbal teas. But, sometimes, there were moments of clarity.

Moments in which he recognized that it was Madara. Tobirama didn’t understand nor did he have any capacity to even try at that time. The only thing he knew, that came from deep inside him, breaking out of his chest was resentment. Anger. Despair. 

There was a hand in his hair, cold water trickling down his face. “I hate you.” He said because there was nothing else he could’ve said.

The movement stopped for a second. “I know.” The response.

“I hate you,” He rasped again because at that moment he meant it, “Why’d you take me?”

It came out as a pathetic whimper. It was all too much. Too much to bear and too much to handle. He knew he was strong in his own way, but how could someone be treated this way and not resent? Not be angry? Not break down into the bits and pieces that made him himself? He had hated the Uchiha so much before because they’d taken everything from him, his little brothers and whatever happiness he knew that had come with them. Sometimes he had the delusional thought that if it hadn’t been for the Uchiha he would’ve never been a Shadow, but a respected Senju within their clan. Able to stand in the light alongside Hashirama. That his father would’ve never seen him as a potential weakness, as an image damaging accident. Butsuma had loved him, but not as much as he had loved his brothers. Tobirama always had to work harder to earn his fathers love, it had always been bound to conditions and, in the end, there had been just another task, only so his father was able to die with a little bit of peace. Tobirama didn’t know if he would have received that little hand squeeze before his father passed away if he hadn’t promised. 

Promised that, no matter what, he’d always have Hashirama’s back. 

It all came back to him now. His last promise to his father had been the final nail in the coffin of his own happiness. There was peace now and he was the one keeping it. The one with the responsibility on his shoulders - he couldn’t say no, couldn’t back down, couldn’t break this off simply because he was miserable and the Uchiha treated him like a caged tiger that had mauled their children. He was to bear. He was to endure.

“Why? Why?” He whispered and choked up, as his brain felt like it was being cut up into bits and pieces. Tears that he had held back for so long breaking out of his eyes and running hotly down his cheeks. 

He could hear how Madara inhaled deeply. “I don’t know.” The admission came after a while.

It was no answer. And Tobirama, distraught and overcome by the illness, by his own emotions, couldn’t do anything but turn his head away and continue to cry, silently, until sleep overcame him.   

Izuna had never been great with words and so, most of the time, he didn’t try to explain what he thought or felt. He never had been someone to justify himself for anything anyway - he had the few things in life that were important to him and that had to be enough. No need to talk to anyone about it, describe whatever it was that made him so passionate about it. Why should he? It was never a question, never even to be questioned and so he never delivered answers either. 

His core values, the things he’d give anything and everything for, weren’t up for debate. These things were his clan and, most importantly, his elder brother. If he was honest, he couldn’t even try to describe the burning flame in his heart, the overwhelming feelings he had for his family. Urges of pride, love, protectiveness. Everything else was a step behind, always. If someone would want to slander him as ‘simple’ for it, he wouldn’t care. For him it was a simple world.

As he was an Uchiha he hated as he loved. Passionately and strongly, with all his being and with every fiber he had. Stubbornly and thoroughly, difficult to be swayed in his resistant hatred. Intensely and frighteningly. This hatred had been bred into him, by his clan, by his father, by the battles he had fought himself ever since he was nine years old - he wasn’t ashamed that he had been born to hate the Senju, that it had all been nurtured by his environment. Not when the hatred was justified. 

He knew them well, the Senju. Honorless bastards that left behind their wounded on the battlefields. That sent kids younger than him into battles. They had no Nindō, he was sure, otherwise they would fight with honor, would keep promises, wouldn’t try to deal dirty and certainly wouldn’t have killed Uchiha civilians. Izuna remembered the satisfaction he felt whenever he had killed one of them, seeing the life fade from their eyes. And he had killed many of them, even survived one of their assassins. He was proud of it, too. If Senju Hashirama wasn’t so ridiculously strong and capable he would’ve certainly tried taking him out as well - but even though Izuna knew he was simple, he wasn’t stupid. Even Madara, who was the strongest shinobi Izuna knew, had tried many times and failed. Izuna didn’t have a death wish.

He had been against peace. Not because he loved the battle and the blood, not because he wanted more Uchiha to lose their lives - because that was the very last thing he wanted. No, it was because he thought that it was simply impossible. How could the Senju honor a contract? Honor peace? It was simply a concept of impossibility. And if the Uchiha thought that there was peace, that the killing would finally end and they all let their guard down; then the moment would come in which the Senju would strike. Izuna just knew. There was no trust to give, as trust they didn’t deserve. Silently he also never wished them any happiness - they forfeit it as soon as there had been Uchiha blood on their blades. But Madara had gone and done it anyway. Peace. 

And brought him home. As a mockery of a husband.

Senju Tobirama. Though now technically Uchiha Tobirama, but hell would freeze over before Izuna would actually acknowledge that. The demon. Red eyes like an Uchiha, but Izuna remembered thinking that there was something sinister behind it. White hair unlike any Senju he knew, fair skin as if he had never seen the sun. But a look into his face gave the family line away, the similarities to his older brother - the repeating features of Senju Butsuma, a devil in his own right. 

And Izuna just knew, immediately. Even though this man was almost blind that it meant nothing. He was dangerous and a Senju. And living in their home now. It was only confirmed by his nightly visit - Tobirama had the sharpened instincts of a battle hardened shinobi. And over the weeks his hatred just grew and grew, the resentment became so unbearable that he couldn’t stand being in his own home anymore. And it twisted him to see his own brother fall more and more entranced with the pest; as if he was slowly, but surely poisoning him. As if it had been the demon’s plan all along. 

It just all exploded that day, in the yard. Izuna  wanted to respect his brother’s wishes and decisions - he didn't want to be the one endangering the peace, as he had to admit that the Senju hadn’t done anything to break it as well. But Tobirama had known how to push his buttons, provoked him just a little too much. And it just had been too easy to punish him for it, to activate the sharingan and delight in the Senju’s misery. 

At least that had been the short-fused plan. To drag out whatever weighed on the other’s mind and plague him with it. Izuna had anticipated battle regrets, a lady he loved rejecting him terribly, because those things were common - whatever could torment a soul like Tobirama. But he didn't expect what he had seen. 

Little kids. Small children; death clinging to them. And they so clearly had been his brothers, because even with the grotesque disfigurement the features were uncanny. The familiarity in which Tobirama had called their names unmistakable. They must’ve died some time ago because Izuna didn’t know of them - the more it struck him that they apparently had been killed by Uchiha. He really wanted to think that it was a lie. Or somehow untrue. That someone else had killed them and blamed Uchiha for it; but he knew. Knew how much Uchiha hated Senju. Even when these Senju were only children. He himself was guilty of it, but he could never hate children.  

It was too much, even for him. He broke the sharingan in haste, distraught and shocked; only to see Tobirama lying unconsciously in the snow with a bad reaction to his jutsu. Only then it settled in how badly he had fucked up, his stomach lurching. And as he didn’t know what to do, he left him there, running to get his brother like had many times as a child, trying to hold back the bile that had crept up in his throat and hoping that Madara could fix his mistakes.

… I have to admit that our food stock is low and that we are in need. It pains me to have to write this in this letter, as my first letter after our separation shouldn’t come with any requests. I can only ask you to trust me that this wasn’t the reason I was writing to you, Tobira. If you have any possibility to perhaps aid us, then the only thing I can do is thank you with all that I have…

Izuna, after seeing the Senju wrestle for his life, beads of sweat on his sickly pale forehead and with his brother at his side, face settled in a frown and lips pressed, decided that, should Tobirama recover, he will talk to him. Properly. And he would even try to set aside his hatred. His brother seemed to manage doing that fine. And Madara has always been a better man than him.

Tobirama’s fever broke after five days. Madara had always trusted his abilities and he did successfully bring him back from the sharingan induced trance, but the genjutsu influenced someone’s brain greatly and as Izuna had been impulsive, with his control lacking, it had been too strong. Anyone weaker than Tobirama would’ve died. And Madara, for a few moments, had feared that perhaps his young spouse wouldn’t make it.

He believed himself to be a strong and rooted character; but to have someone that has been entrusted to you almost die in your arms, with their last words confessing their hatred to you, stirred something in every ever so strong man. Madara wasn’t emotionless, nor was he cold. He thought about what Tobirama had whispered to him the night he almost passed away. Hashirama would’ve never forgiven him if he had. Madara didn’t know if he would’ve even forgiven himself.

He actually liked Tobirama. Liked his presence, his reflective and intelligent answers, the way he went on about his day. The small mannerism he even found endearing. And yet, Madara still knew so little about him. He had done this all the wrong way, hadn’t he? Perhaps if he had shown trust from the start, Tobirama would’ve given trust back - would’ve told him who he was. But trust was difficult to give when the generational hatred tore scars through all of them - Madara wasn’t able to acquit himself from it. He was just as guilty of the blind hatred as everyone else.

And now? Now it seemed to be too late. I hate you. Why’d you take me?

Selfishness. Out of selfishness. He was a magpie, seeing something fascinating and shiny and wanting it for himself and just taking it. He had no regard for consequence, had no thought for what it could mean.

And yet, when he saw Tobirama sleeping peacefully in his bed, face no longer as sickly in complexion as the day before he could only regret being a magpie, but not the taking.  

The new year had long passed, but everyone had been too busy to celebrate it. Winter had been too long and too hard, the dull grays of the sky crushing and monotonous, pressing on the people's mind. And even though none of their own had died this winter, the Uchiha still suffered from the cold, harsh days. Busy as everyone was, no one noticed how the snow slowly had started to melt - and the day Tobirama woke again, healed from sickness, the thick layer of gray broke in the sky and the sun shone, weakly, in golden rays. 

Only know that I love you, Tobira, my dear brother, for you are the only thing I have left. If I had seen any other way I would’ve never let you go. And I will forever be in your debt for the sacrifice that you made for me and for all of us. Be safe and write to me soon. 

Your brother, 

Hashirama

Chapter Text

IX.

The sun wasn’t strong yet, but it did wonders to him anyway. He was practically soaking it up. He hadn’t recovered his own strength yet and thought it to be oddly fitting - illness often had the consequence of weakening in a long term. And even if it was still freezingly cold he still had his eyes closed in delight, the bright and crisp rays of sun illuminating his lids - sitting on the deck to the gardens, listening to the nothing of a quiet late winter day in content. 

It’s how Madara found him. They hadn’t spoken ever since he woke up with clarity, fever gone but with remnants of sickness still clinging to him. He only then remembered what he had said during his fever-induced delusions. Only then he noticed where he actually was. And he couldn’t be confronted with it, not yet. Upset and cowardly he fled towards his own little room, naively hoping to find sanctuary there. And somehow it worked, as Madara didn't attempt to speak with him a few days after. 

And why would he? Tobirama had told him he hated him and had said it with earnest conviction. He knew he should take it back. Apologize. For the sake of peace and everything, for this whole construct to not fall apart. But he really didn’t want to. And so he simply didn’t. 

What had been said had been done. The future was indistinct - it seemed like he was standing on the edge of a cliff by the sea. Unable to tell if the salty breeze that tore through his hair and filled his lungs was his end or his beginning. There were only the wild torrents before him, his fate unclear as it lied ahead in the powerful and dark waves. 

Madara sat next to him without asking, letting the silence speak for itself at least for a short while. 

“I cannot take back what has happened,” Madara said finally. His voice never seemed to waver from a certain kind of detachment, Tobirama often thought it spoke of leadership, “And I know you will not believe me when I say that I am genuinely sorry. And that I want you to be happy here, Tobirama.”

Tobirama truly couldn’t help but scoff. “Forgive me for thinking that it’s a lie, Madara-sama.”

He felt the scrutinizing gaze on his profile, but refused to turn his head. “I don’t blame you. Everyone in your position would think that.” He paused, “I will ask a lot of you.”

“There has been a lot that has been asked of me already,” He replied and it came out cold, “I cannot give more, I have given everything.” 

“Then I will have to ask you to give even more.” Madara insisted and the audacity of it irritated Tobirama, as he gave his husband a side eye, “You will have to let me in and let me try to make it all up to you, Tobirama. Let me help you find happiness here.”

To that he didn’t know how to answer. He turned his head away again, in an attempt to not feel the burning gaze, to shield himself from the intense, fiery chakra radiating from Madara, but it was useless. His throat felt like it was being wrung tight as he swallowed, tiredness and resignation seeping into his bones and whatever defiance he had given just moments ago slipped away, being replaced by weariness. He didn’t dare to answer, for he feared to cry again. Weak, his mind screamed, pathetic.

“Can you do that?” Madara pressed and his hand slipped onto Tobirama’s. It was as hot as his whole being, like a small furnace. Or maybe Tobirama was just very cold.

“You can demand whatever you desire, Madara-sama,” He said finally, quietly, “I am in no position to oppose. So, in a sense, I will just have to give more.”

“And even if that might be true, I don’t want it to be. I don’t want to oppress you, but hope to find an equal in you. As marriage should be.”

He hated the hand on his. He loved the hand on his. He hated that a small part of him loved it. The touch, the warmth, the caress. Can you see me, father? A little love, a little affection and I am crumbling, father. I am as weak as you always said I was. 

"Is this really a marriage?" He couldn't help but ask. 

"Of course it is. And if it's not one yet, not to you, then I hope to make it one." Madara responded evenly. 

Tobirama's heart fluttered, but it felt more like fear than anything else. How could Madara still desire him, after he had so bluntly announced his hatred? How could he still look at him so, as if he was something fascinating, a piece of fine art that needed contemplation and time? He just wanted to go back to the Senju forest. Back to his brother. But he realized now, with that warm hand on his, that no matter what kind of resentment he gave, Madara would never let him go. He stayed quiet, looking down at their joined hands. 

"There are some things I want clarification for," Madara said, "And I expect you to answer honestly."

"I will answer what I can answer. Some things I might not want to clarify." Tobirama responded stubbornly. Not every secret was something he wanted to freely tell, if Madara desperately wanted answers he'd have to pry it out of him. 

Madara offered nothing towards his bite and simply stayed silent for a few moments longer. 

"I have your kunai. I found it the other night. I will give it back to you, but… You are a shinobi." He finally said and it wasn't a question. It was a statement. 

He swallowed. So it hadn't been Izuna that took his kunai after all. "Yes." He confirmed quietly, feeling foolish. 

Madara hummed. "I know it has never been said otherwise, but it has been implied that you weren't. If you are a shinobi, you haven't stayed within compound walls like your brother claimed. Why not tell the truth?" 

Tobirama took a moment or two to breathe and sort his thoughts. He wasn't prepared to tell the whole truth and certainly not willing to spill the Senju clan secret of the Shadows. But he had to provide something, so he settled for half of the truth. 

"When I was born it was soon clear that I was different from my brothers. I wasn't a healthy baby and clearly disabled, as my sight has been limited since birth. My father was… ashamed that I was a cripple, but he made out of me what he could. And so I received training, only to be kept a secret. Father feared that I would be targeted if other rival clans would find out about me, that my vulnerability would also become the vulnerability of my clan." Madara scoffed at that part of his explanation, but Tobirama continued anyway, "I lived my life that way and was fine with this existence. I occasionally got to leave the compound for smaller missions, mostly things that didn't require me to be seen. As long as I had my family it was enough. And when father died…" He paused hesitantly, not sure how to say what he wanted to say, "I was so used to being hidden that I didn't know what it was like to… not be. And so I just continued on like this, supporting my clan and my brother from within the compound."

He lifted his head as he saw the schemes of the small bird he had spotted weeks ago tumble through the melting snow. "It was Hashirama's idea for me to come forward." He said quietly, "He wanted to be honest at the negotiations. He never expected it to turn out like it did. He has always been very protective of me."

There was silence that followed in which Madara seemed to be contemplating. "Vulnerability." He echoed thoughtfully in the dark grovel that was his voice, "That might be true for some. But shinobi are rarely able bodied, be it by birth or by battle somewhere down the line. We learn to arrange ourselves with it. And with the way you move and act I know that you can protect yourself just fine. Your father was a fool."

Tobirama ducked his head. "He was set in his ways."

He was able to say that now, about Butsuma. That he could've been wrong about things, about him. In the past he had been infallible to Tobirama, but not anymore. He loved his father, as any child desperate for affection was, but at the same time he hated him, too. 

"Have you ever–" Madara began, "Have you ever planned to hurt us? With the kunai? Do you have a mission?" 

"No!" Tobirama exclaimed and frowned deeply, "The kunai was solely for my own safety. I don't– I'm not on any mission or anything similar. I'm a shinobi, it would've felt wrong to be here unarmed!" He grit his teeth at the accusation even though Madara had asked it like a simple question, "Or would you have been in Senju territory, among my family, without any weapons?" 

Madara seemed unimpressed by his small outburst, but his chakra didn't radiate any negativity. "Of course not. I had to ask for my own peace of mind. I believe you." But Madara’s voice betrayed nothing and he only could guess if the things he was saying were true. 

And so Tobirama offered no response in return, an uncomfortable turmoil coiling in his stomach. He didn’t know how to read the feeling. He was twenty-two and married, sitting in the Uchiha compound, bound in a union with the most powerful of them all - he never even thought that he would be confronted with any kind of situation like this. 

“Hashirama wrote to me,” He said instead, perhaps simply to change the topic. 

Madara hummed in acknowledgement. “I was wondering when he would do so. Took him quite some time.” 

And Tobirama tried to not let it get to him. That his anija had taken this long to write. In his letter Hashirama begged for his forgiveness and Tobirama couldn’t deny him; not ever. There had to be reasons as to why he had been left in the dark for so long - sometimes his brother was scattered, his mind and thoughts often elsewhere and Tobirama learned over the years not to blame him. Not to take it personally. But it was difficult not to: not to be hurt that his own brother had forgotten about him as soon as his presence had vanished from the compound. Out of sight and out of mind. 

“He asked for aid,” He murmured quietly, afraid that if he spoke too boldly Madara wouldn’t even consider it, “Can we– can we provide some?”

“What do they need? Food?” The other asked. 

Tobirama simply nodded, his gaze falling towards his hands. Even though their clans were now joined by marriage, it didn’t make aid a self-evident thing. Madara was still the clan head with the power to decide. If he declined, there was nothing Tobirama could do. He was so prepared for rejection that Madara’s answer startled him. 

“I guess we can. Our food storages are good this winter. I wouldn’t want my husband’s family to go hungry.” He responded, sounding contemplative. 

Only now Tobirama dared to look at him and even if he saw terribly, the wild dark hair surrounding his husband's face was an unmistakable and fascinating sight to see. Relieved that he wasn’t denied and that his clan would receive the help they needed, he felt an honest smile tugging at his mouth. 

“Thank you, Madara-sama.”

Seeing him sit there, in the quiet winter picture Madara had first thought Tobirama was the embodiment of, smiling, the winter’s sun breaking in crimson eyes making them shine like brilliant rubies, he couldn’t think of anything else but how beautiful he was. This time, there was no guilt following the thought. No voice chastising him for seeing beauty in a Senju. And so he simply basked in the sight of the smile, heart fluttering.

Snow melted and winter was dying.

Izuna always kept his own promises. He never thought about it much anyway. When he set himself a goal, he did it, never backing out of it at the last minute or re-thinking it again and again to the point that the idea had gone stale in his own mind. He simply just did it. And so he waited only a couple of days until he sought out Tobirama, finding him in the small, previously unused room that had become the Senju's. He hadn’t entered just yet, standing in the doorway until the other noticed him. 

Tobirama looked at him expectantly and tense, like a feral cat awaiting an attack at any minute. A few heartbeats and he relaxed, nodding his head, indicating Izuna inside. He entered carefully, settling down on the floor in front of Tobirama, who held his gaze evenly. He understood, in a way, what Madara saw in him. There was a uniqueness to him that he hadn’t seen anywhere else - for some that could be very enticing, he mused. 

They let minutes pass without either of them saying anything. Until Izuna decided that he had assessed the situation thoroughly enough. 

“I don’t like you,” He stated boldly, “It hasn’t changed.” 

There was no change in the neutrality of Tobirama’s features. “I didn’t expect it to.” 

“But I don’t hate you.” Izuna added and this made red eyes widen slightly in surprise, “I can’t. For aniki. He likes you well enough, so I will set aside my hate. And for what it's worth… I apologize for wronging you.”

This seemed to get the other to think as his gaze wandered towards the floor for a short while, until they snapped back to Izuna. “If it’s making any difference, I don’t hate you either.”

It was Izuna’s turn to be surprised, though he didn’t let it show. It was the last thing he’d expected. He didn’t know whether to believe Tobirama or not and briefly tried to imagine what he’d be like after someone put a sharingan on him - he quickly came to the conclusion that he’d likely hold a grudge for many, many years; hatred for someone like that would be unquestionable. But he reeled that thought back in; he was him and Tobirama was Tobirama. He didn’t know what the other was like as he had never bothered to get to know him. Though skepticism still clung heavily, he accepted the answer as it was. 

The silence that weaved thickly between them was awkward but necessary. They had to get used to each other - months of excellently dancing around each other without ever crossing paths had made them practically strangers and, as far as Izuna knew from Madara, Tobirama was a sensor, meaning that he had to get used to Izuna’s chakra signature. And so he let him, watching as the strange eyes that were supposedly blessed by Amaterasu moved in diminutive motions from left to right. Izuna, meanwhile, tried to snuff the fire of rage that ignited everytime his eyes found Tobirama’s face. They both struggled, as it seemed and that somehow calmed his nerves.

They sat there like that for quite some time. Izuna didn’t know for how long. But there was a reason he had come and it wasn’t solely this fragile truce they had built over the past hour or so - he was, in nature, someone brimming with curiosity. He wanted to understand and never had any qualms about simply and bluntly asking. And so he did.

“Who were they?”

Tobirama seemed almost startled by the sudden noise of Izuna’s voice, looking up. He pressed his lips - there was no misunderstanding the question, as it was clear. They both had seen what they had seen; the little ones. 

He swallowed, seemingly reluctant to tell, which Izuna didn’t blame him for. He himself wouldn’t want to, but, as it seemed, Tobirama was the bigger person between both of them. 

“They were my little brothers. Kawarama and Itama. They died a long time ago.” There was an old hurt in his voice, even though Izuna also heard how he tried to suppress it. 

“We killed them. The Uchiha.” He responded and it wasn’t a question. He already knew. 

Tobirama inclined his head to a single nod. “It was a time, you surely remember, where even our youngest went to fight the battles of the adults. They were skilled in their own right, but children nonetheless. They didn’t stand a chance towards fully developed shinobi.” He paused and there was heaviness in the way he clenched his jaw, “Kawarama came after me, he was eleven. Itama was our youngest. He was eight.” 

Izuna hadn’t forgotten what the two little Senju had said. About how they died. And he didn’t know how to justify to himself what shouldn’t be justified - he couldn’t say that it was simply war when his clan had committed war crimes towards children. Children. And even though these children had been of Senju blood, his heart felt heavy. 

“Tell me about them.” He suddenly said, which he himself hadn’t been prepared for.

Tobirama looked at him, frowning a little. But then he actually did.

They lived on, his little souls, by the stories he knew to tell about them. It would never bring them back, but he'd make sure they'd never be forgotten. 

The snow melted slowly but surely. The air was still cold enough to draw little clouds from his breath, but not cold enough for him to duck into his coat anymore - he wandered the streets, now mostly unbothered in search for nothing particular. Tobirama hadn’t gotten around to exploring the whole compound in its every peculiar detail yet and, in a way, he didn’t know where his limits ran. It was of certain assuredness that he wasn’t to leave the compound, but something about the wild river beyond compound walls enticed him. 

His instincts rarely were wrong and they certainly didn’t disappoint him now. The river was impressive, wide and strong in its currents, carrying water and stones along. The river’s power was undeniable, especially now towards the end of winter as thick ice flows got carried away by the stream, eventually reaching their destination and sailing freely onto the ocean. Standing by the edge, he breathed in the unique smell of river water. 

“Are you planning to jump in?”

As Tobirama had been so in tune with the chakra around him, he had felt his approach long before he actually arrived at his side. He had been trailing after him in a bit of distance for quite some time.

“No.” He responded simply, keeping his eyes closed. Hikaku’s chakra had always been very pleasant, for an Uchiha. “Why are you here?”

“Madara-sama told me to keep an eye on you,” He said bluntly and Tobirama noted how he’d always been honest, unlike any Uchiha, “Just in case.”

“I see. I cannot say that I blame him.” He responded, not particularly willing to engage himself. Hikaku seemed to think otherwise. 

“Are you alright, Tobirama-sama?” He asked and it genuinely sounded like he meant it.

Tobirama breathed in; the smell of water and earth and ice pleasantly hitting his lungs. Was he alright? He didn’t actually know. Physically he seemed well enough: though his constitution was still weak he was already able to walk again, do the things he liked to do on the Uchiha compound without feeling too exhausted. He hadn’t trained in a long time so he didn’t know how that would go. But that wasn’t really necessary, wasn’t it? He wasn't a shinobi anymore. 

Emotionally… He didn’t know how to define it. A shinobi never really thought about their emotions in complexity, usually they didn’t even have the time to think about these things - breaking their mind apart and checking in on every limping knot in their brain. And so Tobirama found that he didn’t actually know how to answer - he opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“It’s fine, Tobirama-sama,” Hikaku said softly, “We can just stand here, if you want.”

Tobirama swallowed. “Yes. Thank you.”

And that was that. They stood for over an hour, the wild torrents, the murmur of the river never seizing. 

Madara didn’t know if it was his smartest move. But in his mind Tobirama had proven himself enough. And it didn’t seem fair nor just anymore to mistrust him, to doubt his intentions, after all that had happened to him since he arrived at the compound. Madara often thought about it, these unfortunate events; in silent moments whenever words came difficult to him as he was writing letters, or when he was preparing an afternoon tea. In the evenings, when he was lying alone in his large futon - too sizable for one person. It was strange that he had only noticed that after Tobirama became his spouse - and after he had lain in it. 

For exactly two days after Tobirama had fled his bedroom the pillow had smelled like him - the unique scent of Tobirama that Madara had never noticed before, as they never had been close enough. He felt guilty whenever he had pressed his own nose into the fabric, inhaling deeply, trying his best to remember the smell; and yet, at the same time, he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to be close, in a way, but he knew it was selfish to want that. 

Tobirama hated him. He had said so himself. A person usually so frugal and careful with his words, who, in his most desperate of moments, when he was weak and exhausted couldn’t think of anything else but to express how much he hated Madara. It shouldn’t affect him because in a way he should’ve expected it - known, that this was something that could’ve happened. Resentment. But, despite all rationality and predictability, it had made him swallow hard and a feeling overcame him; like a heavy stone settling on his heart. He had responded that he had known, perhaps to reassure Tobirama, to calm him down. But in truth he had never been sure. Now he was. A confirmation true yet terrible. 

He could see it sometimes, the resentment. In a tightening of the face, a slight clenching of teeth. In a deep inhale, in a flickering of eyes. And even if Madara knew that he himself wasn’t exactly responsible for the actions of Izuna or of his clan, in the end it really was his fault. He had wanted Tobirama. He had been the one with the power to choose - and the power he wielded. He was the final trigger. And therefore responsible. 

The one to hate. 

But he couldn’t help being selfish. Possessive. Couldn’t help but push and push and push, over limits and boundaries that had been set. And so he joined Tobirama in the kitchen one evening after dinner, where he had prepared himself some tea.

“Do you mind?” He said, but already sat down next to him.

Tobirama only threw him a glance. “No.” He responded and Madara couldn’t really tell if it was a lie, “Do you also want some tea?” 

“If you still have some, I will gladly take some. Thank you.”

Tobirama only gestured towards a kettle. “I made enough for two.” It made Madara wonder if he had somehow expected him - it was difficult to tell how perceptive Tobirama actually was. Nonetheless he poured himself some tea, nipping at it - letting moments pass.

“I want you to move your things to my bedroom,” He said and watched how Tobirama’s gaze moved from his cup towards him, already frowning, “After all that has happened I find it distasteful to mistrust you any longer. And our marriage has to be legitimized to some degree. So you will sleep with me, from now on.”

He watched Tobirama’s frown deepen. “But… I had a weapon. The kunai. I have broken rules.” He said, as if it changed anything.

“I believe you when you say that it was only for self-defense. Any shinobi would’ve brought a weapon. And given what has happened it wasn’t a bad call at all. If it matters, I am still apologetic for everything that has occurred. It shouldn’t have.” Madara explained evenly.

Tobirama looked away, remaining silent for a while. “Thank you, then, for trusting me, Madara-sama.” 

In these moments Madara really wished he was able to read him. To know what he felt. If he resented him even more for this or if it was all the same to him. In these moments he really wished Tobirama would stop using the honorific suffix - he had never done so, no matter how many times Madara had told him. 

“Very well then,” He uttered, sounding awkward even to himself, “You can move your things tonight.”

They drank the tea in silence from then on. 

Madara's being was a glowing ember next to him and it was almost too much to bear. His heart was racing and his blood rushing in his ears - they were too close, too close and he barely managed to keep his breathing even in fear for the other to notice. The tips of his fingers were prickling as he was grabbing the blanket that he shared with another person. With him.

The last time he had actually shared a bed with someone had been years and years ago, when he had still been small - it had been with Hashirama and it was the last time he had sought comfort in his brother’s presence after a nightmare. Their father had found them in the morning, his face written in disappointment when Tobirama admitted as to why he had snuck into his brother’s room. Tobirama had known then that, no matter how much he wanted to, being close with his siblings was seen as a weakness. Otherwise he never had a reason to share a bed. He had been a shadow; next to that unappealing and undesirable. 

And now? Now he was married. In bed with his husband. 

His hands were shaking and he clenched them around the fabric. There was no noise in this new, slightly unfamiliar room, except for the steady breathing of Madara next to him. He wasn’t quite asleep yet, as Tobirama felt through the steady flow of chakra. It seemed like the man was just as unfamiliar with sharing a bed as him. Except perhaps not completely unfamiliar. Tobirama somehow doubted that Madara ever had any issues in finding bed partners. Even though he only knew his distinctive features, his hair for example, he didn’t doubt for a second that Madara was a very handsome man. His voice certainly was.

And despite Madara reassuring him several times in the past that they wouldn’t have sex, the close proximity made Tobirama doubt. He had come to Madara’s bedroom that evening, his arms full of the few pathetic belongings he had, preparing himself for the case that his husband would change his mind. Wouldn’t it be easy? Tobirama was there. Available. He wouldn’t say no. As far as he knew Madara hadn’t taken any mistresses which had surprised him; he had denied Tobirama, but wouldn’t he want to live out his needs? 

Perhaps Tobirama simply wasn’t to his tastes, which wouldn’t really offend him. He never met anyone who had seen any attractiveness in him. If Madara would take him from behind, he wouldn’t even have to see his face–

His line of thoughts was interrupted by a shiver, his own body rebelling against these ideas. But Tobirama couldn’t help but despair: some day Madara would want to, wouldn’t he? They’d be married their whole life. No one would ever go that long without satisfying their needs - not everyone was like Tobirama, who was fine going without, who never saw the appeal in it. Would he ever be ready? He didn’t know.

Why couldn’t he be like anyone else? He was already so different from everyone, from his looks to how he acted - he had never been quite ashamed of himself back then, but in some moments he wondered what had gone wrong. Albinism ran in their family, to some degree - Kawa and Itama, they had gotten some of it as well, even though it had never affected them in any other way. Tobirama had never known his mother except for a few wispy, warm and undefined memories from when he was very young. But he knew it had been a gift from her. A gift? A curse? To his father mostly a curse. Senju shouldn't be different or unique, shouldn’t be anything that could’ve been seen as a weakness - in unification there lies strength. That had been Bustuma’s philosophy. It made Tobirama think of something.  

“Hashirama had this idea once.”

He knew Madara was still awake, listening.

“I think he still has it. The idea of a village. Where Uchiha and Senju live united in peace”

Silence. Then:

“I know. He has told me about it a lot.” Madara's voice was silent, rough. 

“It’s delusional.”

“I know. Should you say it though, as his brother?”

“I was never afraid to tell him what I think. But he always knew how to dream.”

“That indeed.”

He was silent, for one, two, three heartbeats.

“Sometimes I wish I knew how to dream as well.”

A quiet confession, whispered in the dark. Meant for the dark. 

“Hm. Me too.” 

A confession, equal in its kind, whispered back. 

There was a Door to which I found no Key:
There was a Veil past which I could not see:

Some little Talk awhile of ME and THEE
There seemed–and then no more of THEE and ME.
[ XXXII. - The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam]

Chapter Text

X.

And, for the first time, Tobirama awoke to the sound of birds singing. 

It had been so utterly, terribly, suffocatingly quiet all winter, but he simply didn't notice how much it affected him until now, when the soft sounds of returning nature wisped around his sleep-dosed mind. It was strange, in every way, to come out of sleep like this - birds greeting the morning, a soft light of a weak sun breaking through the windows; his head lying on soft pillows and his gaze slowly focusing on noble wooden floors and furniture, intended for a Lord. 

The Lord of the Uchiha. 

He turned himself around, careful not to be too noisy. He almost startled when he realized how close they suddenly were - face to face. Madara, a man usually so aware and in control, sleeping peacefully next to him. As if he wasn’t a Senju, a mortal enemy. Tobirama’s heart, traitorously, reacted immediately, picking up speed and softly, yet strongly, pounding against his chest. Because he was near-sighted and this close Tobirama was able to see more than he usually did. 

Dark and thick locks of hair were falling into Madara’s face and something in Tobirama wanted to touch it, though he resisted the severe urge - black, plentiful lashes resting on handsomely defined and pale cheekbones. Not sickly pale, like Tobirama was, but aristocratically pale; fitting for a Lord. Beautifully pale , his mind whispered . He had a strong and regal nose, his mouth slim but not tightened as it usually was when he was awake. His equally dark eyebrows not drawn into a frown, but resting peacefully, like Madara was. Tobirama felt like a voyeur, as he was drinking the sight in - guilty, for not thinking anything else in that moment except for how handsome Madara was. 

And then, to his horror, Madara drew in a deep breath, his eyes cracking open only by a little, tiny bit. And Tobirama couldn’t look away; couldn’t. His heart beating, beating and beating, his short breaths uneven, but he simply couldn’t rip his gaze away from his eyes. He had never seen them this close and it was wondrous, alluring, mysterious how black irises met black pupils, dark swallowing dark. Sun reflected in them and he felt lost. It was like Madara’s eyes were a dark pit of nothingness, of fascinating, tempting darkness that Tobirama wanted to fall into. 

It was of sudden realization that he had stared for far too long. That Madara had surely noticed by now how he was under strange scrutiny. That Tobirama had watched him sleep. Embarrassment, shame and horror suddenly zipped up his spine and he scrambled, sitting upright. 

“I’m sorry.” He uttered and only saw Madara frown sleepily in confusion, as he freed himself from the duvet, ultimately fleeing the room like a beaten dog. 

His Lord told him what had happened. Hikaku was his most trusted friend ever since they met when they were younger and there was little that he didn’t know about Madara. He was glad for this kind of trust: Madara was everything in his life. Who would he be without him? No one, just another Uchiha shinobi. Madara had given him meaning. 

But that didn’t mean he thought of him as flawless. He remembered clearly when he had visited the main house for paperwork and advisory. They had worked through a few hours of clan business. Afterwards they had been silent, tea already mostly drunk - it was supposed to be a short break, but somehow neither of them were too eager to get back to work. Hikaku prided himself to be perceptive and so he noticed early on that something was occupying Madara’s mind. Something he was probably about to tell him.

“Izuna…” He had suddenly said, with distance in his eyes, “Izuna has made a mistake.”

“A mistake?” He had repeated. It wouldn’t be the first time. He never admitted it to anyone, but he didn’t like Uchiha Izuna all that much. He was so different from his brother - a lot more rash, hasty and unthinking. A volcano of trouble - heart in the right place, but that was it. But perhaps Hikaku was simply biased. 

“I don’t know exactly how it happened,” Madara had said, with a frown, “I wasn’t there. But they got into a fight, him and Tobirama that is. Somehow they provoked each other and…”  

There was regret, Hikaku remembered, in his Lord’s voice. 

“And Izuna put him under the sharingan.”

Hikaku had clenched his teeth hard then, looking away so Madara wouldn’t see how hard he frowned. How it affected him. An advisor shouldn’t feel that way about his Lord’s husband, he knew better. But putting a fellow clan member under the sharingan was a crime in his books, something that simply shouldn’t be done. It didn’t matter that the clan member had married in. And though he’d never admit that either, but he had grown to like Tobirama very much. Every time they spoke he was surprised again and again by the young man. There was something in his nature that resonated with his own - calmness, reservedness, caution. Something he rarely found in fellow clan members - the Uchiha’s fire was legendary for a reason. Though Hikaku never risked thinking too much about it, nor did he risk letting himself enjoy it all too much. He didn’t want to think about where it could possibly lead. 

“With all due respect, Madara-sama, but that is more than a simple mistake.” He had responded, trying his best to keep any venom out of his voice, but not quite succeeding. 

Madara had nodded absentmindedly, seemingly agreeing. “I know. He also had a bad reaction to the jutsu, he–” There had been a stubborn clench in his jaw. 

“He almost died?” Hikaku had filled in, his mind trying to comprehend how horrifying that would’ve been, if Tobirama had died. 

His Lord’s sharp eyes had caught his, but there was no anger for him in them. Only concern. One sharp nod confirmed it to Hikaku. 

“He was delusional in fever and has told me he hated me.” He continued thoughtfully. He wasn’t upset, not really, Hikaku thought, but it did weigh on his mind. “I want you to keep an eye on him, Hikaku. He has recovered, but I worry for his health either way.”

There was an implication there, somewhere, Hikaku noticed and processed. It was no far away of a thought to think that someone like Tobirama would grow tired of life, after everything that had been done to him here. But Hikaku knew better. His perceptiveness rarely let him down; Tobirama was strong in his will. 

Nonetheless he had nodded, agreed to watch over him. It was no difficulty anyway. There was little hardship in watching someone like Tobirama. 

When Tobirama made it to the poarch towards the gardens, he was surprised by a warmer wind. He didn’t need a coat anymore and gladly he shed it then and there. The snow had fully melted, though a wet sheen remained on the grass and bushes; faint hints of the past hard winter. He inhaled - spring wasn’t there yet, not quite. But it was trying. 

The gardens felt different now, with the snow gone and the temperatures warmer. The small pond had unfrozen and the fish were moving again. Soon the turtles would dig themselves up. Life slowly came back. A few birds that weren’t crows or ravens were already settling on trees, singing the same familiar tune that Tobirama had woken up with, the same tune that he used to listen to as a child in the forest. 

But, suddenly, in between all those familiar tunes a strange one: similar and yet so different. A soft, lone trill - high and low, sounds rolling softly and shrill at the same time. A melody repeating itself, but in each repeat a little different in its humble notes. It was unlike anything he had heard before - it had to be an unfamiliar bird, one Tobirama hadn’t encountered yet. He was knowledgeable in this country's wildlife, so it couldn’t be native, not here. He looked around, bewildered and enchanted by the tune and after a while spotted it in the trees.

The small bird whose schemes he had seen in these gardens many times before. With a yellow beak and black coat, still fluffy and ruffled up from winter. Such a plain bird with such an interesting voice. He thought and sat there for a while, listening to the bird’s singing, waiting for another of its kind to answer.

It never came.

At some point it naturally made no sense anymore for Hikaku to just trail after him, when Tobirama knew he was there anyways. So Tobirama simply decided that they should walk together - he wouldn’t admit it, but he was lonely. People like Izuna or, Kami forbid, Madara were just exhausting for him and his nerves. Hikaku’s usually quiet presence was reassuring and not too difficult to deal with. He enjoyed those little walks. 

It was before noon when they trailed through the Uchiha compound’s streets near the center square, ground still wet from molten snow and wind still quite cold in its nature - greenery hadn’t come through quite yet and the tree trunks were still bare, but this would change eventually. Tobirama’s mind had been wandering when he suddenly smelled smoke, with the tiniest hints of lavender clinging to it. He stopped dead in his tracks.

“Is there a fire?” He questioned, turning towards Hikaku. 

“Oh, yes. But it’s intentional. A funeral pyre,” Hikaku responded, “One of our esteemed elders has died yesterday. They were quite old so it was to be expected. The funeral celebrations are today and their body is currently being burned.” 

Tobirama frowned. Uchiha traditions were still very unfamiliar to him - the Senju buried their dead, believing that they should be given back to the earth and trees as they were. 

“I didn’t know you cremated your dead…” He uttered, trailing off. 

“Hasn’t Madara-sama told you? He will be attending the funeral service, as the deceased has been a member of the elder council.” 

He shook his head softly. Madara never told him anything about what he was doing or what was happening at the compound on a day to day basis. Most days Tobirama spent alone, reading or wandering the street, watching the gardens from the deck. It had never even occurred to him to ask about any of these things, simply assuming that it was no business he should be snooping around in. 

“Hm,” Hikaku mused, “We can attend, if you want. If that’s something you’re interested in. The Uchiha are your clan as well. Should you die, you will most likely receive a fire burial as well.” He offered. 

Tobirama hesitated. Was it a good idea? Wouldn’t he be ogling, voyeuring on a private family ceremony, where loved ones of the deceased had come together to mourn in peace? But he was curious to some degree and when Hikaku pulled at the hem of his haori, he let himself be dragged towards the general direction of the fire.

“Why does it smell like lavender?” He asked quietly. If he was honest, he didn’t quite know what to feel about Hikaku’s statement, that, should he die, his body would be burned as well. In heart he was still a Senju; his body should be returned to the mother forest and be buried next to his brothers.

“Burning a body isn’t always pleasant,” Hikaku explained patiently, “And the smell can be upsetting. Therefore it is prepared with strongly smelling herbs beforehand. Lavender has a strong inherent smell, which is also not being spoiled when being burned. It is why it is mostly preferred.”

Tobirama nodded, filing away the piece of information in the back of his mind. “I see.”

They were reaching a small stream, a side branch of the large river beyond the tall walls, that fed several wells within the compound. The closer they got to the actual place of the funeral ceremony, the more Tobirama got hesitant and uneasy. He shouldn’t go there, a voice nagged and he slowed down. Hikaku naturally noticed. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked as Tobirama ultimately stopped dead in his tracks.

“I really… I really shouldn’t go there,” He said, suddenly very clearly remembering the incident from weeks ago, “I won’t be welcome.”

He felt how Hikaku’s usual calm and cooler chakra stirred up slightly. “Why not? You are an Uchiha and are allowed to attend any clan celebration.”

A short moment passed, “Or are you afraid it will happen again? That they will attack you? They won’t, you are with me. I won’t let them.” He added and sounded very determined. Tobirama didn’t know about Hikaku’s skills as a shinobi, but it was clear in the way he moved and behaved that he was competent to some degree.

He shook his head instead, a sigh ripping from his throat.

“It’s not that,” Hikaku moved closer when he uttered those words and he suddenly noticed how quietly he had spoken, “I can defend myself. I do not fear violence. It’s just–” Not quite finding proper words he looked up, letting his gaze rest upon the small stream, “I won’t be welcome, just a nuisance. They want to honor their deceased and my presence will only spoil the ceremony for them.”

“ Why?” Hikaku insisted and there was a small break in his usual calmness, “You are an Uchiha. You have every right to attend clan festivities as any other clan member!”

The insistence boiled anger and frustration up inside Tobirama. “But I’m not though, am I?!” 

He exclaimed, then took a calming breather, “I’m not. I have married into this clan and of course that technically makes me an Uchiha. But everything about me is Senju.” 

He looked at Hikaku’s face and wished he could see the other’s expression properly, “From my behavior, my traditions to my looks. I can only begin to imagine how offensive my eyes have to be–”

Hikaku made a choking noise and Tobirama immediately stopped his rambling, suddenly feeling like he should be embarrassed by the sudden outburst. He was already ready to apologize, but the other forestalled him. “Your eyes? Offensive?” He uttered and it seemed breathless.

Tobirama frowned. “Of course. They’re red. Isn’t it seen as mockery towards the sharingan?”

There was a stunned silence and Tobirama wondered if he had said anything wrong, immediately feeling uncomfortable. “Hikaku-san, I–”

“He hasn’t told you that either?” Everything about Hikaku’s usual stoicism seemed thrown overboard, replaced by utter disbelief. 

“Told me what?!” Tobirama snapped, frustration rising. 

“Your eyes are the exact opposite of offensive! They’re– You’re–” 

He took a breather, seemingly trying to calm himself. “The goddess we, as the Uchiha, worship is Amaterasu. The most important deity of all: the goddess of the sun and the light. We believe our sharingan is a gift of hers to us, the greatest gift she could ever give to a common Uchiha. It gives us strength and power in battle. Glory, superiority!” He swallowed, “But– but we have to earn this gift. And not every Uchiha is worthy of it, as some of us never awaken their sharingan. But you, Tobirama-sama, have been born with red eyes! Those who are born with red eyes we believe to be blessed - blessed souls of Amaterasu, who have been chosen to wield her will here on earth!” 

Tobirama couldn’t believe what he was hearing, taken aback by the sudden emotional outburst he had never seen in Hikaku, he opened his mouth to say something, but Hikaku wasn’t done. 

“So no, Tobirama-sama. Your eyes are definitely not offensive. They are literally the most powerful, beautiful thing an Uchiha can witness. Anyone who is with someone who is blessed by Amaterasu can count himself as one of the luckiest Uchiha alive, as he is closest to Amaterasu’s will. Your eyes…” There was a short hesitation, as if he didn't know if he should say what he thought, “They make you beautiful, Tobirama-sama.” 

Hikaku’s cool chakra was intense, serious and currently overwhelming him like an ocean wave that had caught him off guard, breaking down over him. He stood there, speechless, his mind trying to comprehend what just had been said to him. His mouth opened, in an attempt to get something out, to respond, but thoughts and therefore words came only slowly to him. Could it be true? It sounded so outlandish, like an alluring honey-trap too good to be true. How could anyone look at him and see anything remotely of beauty? 

“D- Do you mean it, Hikaku-san?” His voice stuttered involuntarily, “If not, it would be quite a cruel joke–”

“It is not a joke!” The other pressed, his hands finding one of his. The sudden change in proximity, with Hikaku being close, now holding his hand, had Tobirama almost jerk in surprise. He still wasn’t used to touch from other people than his family - and it felt like this was more than simple reassurance. There was a certain fondness hanging thickly around them and Tobirama didn’t know what it could possibly mean, not willing to interpret too much into it for the fear of what it could lead to. 

“I mean it, Tobirama-sama. And it is honestly a shame that no one has told you before.” He squeezed the hand slightly and the feeling of rough, gentle hands around his already burned into Tobirama’s mind, “Frankly, I shouldn’t be the one saying these things to you, but–”

And with that, the spell broke. Hastily, but careful not to seem like a frightened deer, he pulled his hand out of Hikaku’s. He was married, for Kami’s sake. He shouldn’t be this close with anyone else besides his husband - which was Uchiha Madara. And though they weren’t this close, given the nature of their marriage, it didn’t give him the right to indulge himself in this kind of intimacy with another man. And on top of all, Hikaku was his husband’s advisor, a close friend - it was all wrong. And yet…

And yet he had enjoyed the simple touch. Shamelessly. Guiltily.

Hikaku seemed to have come to his senses as well, awkwardly inclining his head, kneading his own hands. “I truly don’t understand why Madara-sama hasn’t said to you what I have. And I know it is not my place, but– You are very beautiful, Tobirama-sama, and blessed by Amaterasu. I never really– I never really so bluntly oppose my Lord, but I find it distasteful… wrong that he withheld it from you.”

Tobirama inhaled deeply. “Perhaps he just doesn’t share the same opinion as you, Hikaku-san.”

And despite all of the emotional turmoil that had happened between them, Hikaku’s chakra was still a cool wave, a steady and strong ocean. He scoffed, but not at Tobirama. “Believe me when I say that he most definitely does.”

There were flames in his chest, hot and furious, wild and out of control. 

He was familiar with fire, he was born in fire, wielded fire - he was an Uchiha after all. But this kind of blaze he was unfamiliar with, the kind that spread across his body, settled hotly in his stomach and behind his eyes. That made his teeth clench and his mood spiral into blind anger. The kind that felt like he’d choke on it, that made him feel poisoned. 

The kind that made him want to destroy things. That made him want to strangle his long time friend with his bare hands. 

Madara came back to the main house late that night, the daily business had taken him longer than he had anticipated and the whole day the simmering flames in his chest had roared, only settling down when the cool night’s breeze had swept through his hair and he saw the minka lying peacefully in darkness. No lights were on, which indicated that everyone had already gone to bed. 

Relief had spread through his body only when he actually saw Tobirama on their futon, eyes closed, sleeping soundly. He had feared that, perhaps, his husband wouldn’t be home that night - it was irrational, but had plagued his mind nonetheless.

And now Madara lied there himself, wide awake and suffocating in the silence, his head tilted to the side with his husband’s face only inches away. Pale moonlight shone through the cracks of the window, illuminating the man next to him, painting his being in an ethereal light. Madara's fingers had found the tips of his snow-white hair long ago, toying with the soft strands, careful not to wake him. He looked like an angel sent by Amaterasu then, Madara thought, his otherwise stern face relaxed and oddly soft. 

In the end he is in my bed, Hikaku. Not yours. He thought spitefully. 

He had been on his way to the elder’s funeral, late and in a hurry, when he had seen them in the distance. Too far away to hear what they were saying, but Hikaku’s body language seemed clear enough to him. The closeness, the way his trusted friend had taken Tobirama’s hands.

He wanted him. And Tobirama hadn’t pushed him away. It was then the flames of jealousy had exploded in his chest and before he did anything rash and foolish, born out of rage, he had turned away from the scene. It felt like a special kind of betrayal - he had asked for him to look after his husband. But certainly not like this. 

Madara was a prideful man and even though he wouldn’t say that he wasn’t driven by emotions, he usually had claimed that he was above petty notions like jealousy. But that had been before Tobirama. Madara knew quite well what he was like. Abrasive. Cold. Harsh at times, rough around the edges. Demanding. And though he never truly doubted himself, he still wondered if that just wasn’t what Tobirama wanted. It was egotistical to claim him, when he had declared his hatred for him not even two weeks ago. Perhaps Hikaku was just the kind of man that could give Tobirama what he deserved. Perhaps he was unworthy of Tobirama. 

But Madara wasn’t truly fair, nor selfless. He’d make Tobirama like him. Somehow he’d do it, make him relinquish the hatred. He'd have to be patient, but he'd always been determined, stubborn. He'd get to know him, his mysterious husband.

Tobirama made a soft noise in his sleep, his head pushing deeper into the pillow. And in that moment Madara desperately wished that he could kiss him. 

There was something about the gardens and the quiet place on the deck that drew him in inevitably. In the beginning he had just sought a hideaway, where he could be alone with his thoughts. Now he had also grown fond of the calm nature displayed in front of him. Birds singing, the tiny stream feeding the pond rippling, all different kinds of rustling in the undergrowth. There were some bushes that would bear beautiful flowers, should the time come, Tobirama knew. As he had no real tasks to fulfill within the Uchiha clan, which resulted in his days being long and protracted - he let himself be lulled in by the unchanged and grounding sounds of nature, losing time on the deck. 

Tobirama heard the small, dark bird often now. It seemed to have shied out of its winter covert, daring to sit openly in the large trees or hop around the grass area in search of insects and worms. Its song still enchanted him even though Tobirama speculated that there was none of its kind here that would ever respond to its call. 

He had been so entranced by the small avian that had gotten used to his presence, that he had almost missed Madara entering the deck - the bird fled by the sudden noise of the tatami door sliding back. Tobirama only looked up briefly, when Madara set down a steaming cup next to him on the wooden floor on his own descent. 

“Here.” Madara offered, without any other explanation. He didn’t ask if he could join him, which would’ve only been polite, but they were way past politeness now.

He glanced at Madara, then at the cup and took it reluctantly. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time that Madara had brought him tea. As he nipped carefully a fleeting, intrusive thought passed through his mind how strangely comfortable he had gotten with Madara around him. But he was caught by surprise by the taste that spread across his tongue. 

“Oh,” He emitted and felt how the frown on his face lifted, replaced by curiosity. He nipped again, just to be sure. “It’s– It’s tilia.” He breathed, looking at Madara. 

“Hm,” Madara agreed and his tone sounded pleased, “As the traveling routes are free of snow now, I was able to get the blend from a tradesman in the south.”

Tobirama was stunned, shocked even that Madara had actually remembered what his favorite kind of tea was. He choked out a confused 'thank you'. It felt like it had been ages ago when they were both sitting by that quarry stone in the dark of the Senju compound, exchanging frosty and stiff words. Tobirama had never mentioned the tea again after that - a strange, little tingle spread in his chest when he realized that Madara had actually sent someone out to get him a certain blend of tea. Feeling his cheeks warm, be it by his thoughts or the tea’s warm steam, he nipped again. There was a certain sweetness spreading with the next gulp and when he realized that it was honey he truly didn’t know what to say anymore.

He had been thrown into silence. How had Madara known that? That he liked that little bit of honey in his tilia tea? It wasn’t something he had ever mentioned before, he was sure. Tobirama settled with the thought that it must’ve been a coincidence - because if it wasn’t, his brain wouldn't know how to comprehend. 

The silence dragged on, with Tobirama cradling his cup and Madara’s gaze wandering through the garden. Suddenly the small bird’s call resounded, shrill and trill and it caught his attention. 

“That bird,” Tobirama said, curiosity winning over his awkwardness, “It’s not native to these lands. I would know. Where did it come from?”

In the corner of his vision he saw how Madara turned his head, following his gaze. “Ah,” He uttered, “It is a blackbird, but not the kind commonly living here. A distant cousin of our blackbird perhaps.” He shuffled a little, “A few odd years ago a merchant came through our territory, a curious man indeed, that claimed to be from the far, far west. He was lost and unfamiliar with our lands. My father had offered him shelter until he had figured out where to travel next. He had been so thankful that he left that bird with us, out of gratitude.” 

Madara seemed lost in memories. “Father had tried to keep that bird in a cage, but it had just been too clever. One day it had managed to escape. And we had been so sure that it would vanish, fly into freedom and never come back. But when I heard its call in our garden I knew it would stay.”

Tobirama listened to that story silently, processing the bird’s history with the Uchiha family.

“But why didn’t it fly away? Why doesn’t it fly away now? It has no one here…” He asked. 

“Hm, if I’m honest, I don’t know either. Perhaps it doesn’t know any different. Perhaps home is just too far away.” Madara answered, “Perhaps this is just its home now.”

To that, Tobirama offered no response. An odd knot of sympathy for the animal had formed in his chest. He turned his head towards the lone blackbird and listened to it sing.

"How do you manage to read?" Madara asked one afternoon. 

It seemed that, no matter where Tobirama was, Madara found him. Sought him out even. After weeks by himself he didn’t know if it was nice or uncomfortable. Madara’s presence, for some reason, was both at the same time to him. 

He looked up from the book he was reading in the pale light of the library. 

“My father taught me a simple jutsu when I was around four,” He said simply, turning his gaze back towards the pages, “But it only allowed me to read for a limited amount of time. I improved the jutsu by the time I was eight.”

It didn’t change the fact that he had to hold the book pretty close to his face, but at least he was able to read. People who were less inclined in chakra control wouldn’t have been able to master the jutsu like he had. 

“You mean to tell me that you experimented and successfully improved jutsus at eight years old? ” Madara incredulously, wonder swinging in the usually neutral tone. 

Tobirama frowned for a second, letting his attention slide back to Madara. “Yes. I was a curious child and not satisfied with ultimatives. I always sought what was beyond; I was an… inventor… explorer, of sorts.”

“That is astonishing. What would you invent? Jutsus?”

“Indeed. I always hoped to improve the life of my family. And mine. It was my second goal, next to meeting my need for experimenting on ideas I had. I–” He interrupted himself. A thought came up that he had tucked away for a long time. Was now the time to bring it up? What if it was rejected?

But Tobirama decided on bravery. “Before I came here, I had been researching on a method to cure my sight. I think that, with enough time and… resources, I can do it.” Suddenly feeling shy, he met Madara’s gaze only for a short time. 

“Healing your sight? Completely?” Madara asked and Tobirama detected no negativity in tone - it seemed closer to amazement, even if Tobirama couldn't quite believe it. 

He swallowed. “Yes. Completely.”

Madara was silent and Tobirama let him. He braced himself, just in case. But then:

“That would be amazing indeed… Can you show me your research, sometime? Perhaps I can help.”

He almost didn't believe what he had heard. As he agreed and hope bloomed in his chest, his little heart skipped a beat. And Tobirama, in all his delight, just let it.

Chapter Text

XI.

He was skittish and he knew that. He couldn’t help it.

It was a cruel twist of fate that as someone with such poor sight he naturally craved and needed touch - and yet at the same time as a Shadow he received so little that, at times on the long and hard missions, he couldn’t remember when the last time had been where he had been close to someone without the intent of killing them. The same thing also went the other way around. No one ever touched him without wanting him dead - everyone except Hashirama.

Hashirama always knew how to do it right. How to pat his hand or sling his arms around his torso in the proper way, just how he liked it. With Hashirama, it never felt wrong , like danger. Like it was a bad thing to let someone come close. Tobirama always felt the brotherly love in the familiar and careful touches - Hashirama was aware enough that he always knew how to dial it down a little, for him. Hashirama was a person that displayed his love for people through physical touch. And Tobirama got his share. 

But the thing was that Hashirama loved a lot. He just had a lot of it to give. He was close with many, many people; knew their way of touch, what they liked and how they appreciated it. And Tobirama knew it shouldn’t affect him - his brother's heart was large and could fit everybody. It was one of the reasons he made a perfect clan head. But it was hard to keep up with so many people, even if someone was ambitious. Even if someone was Hashirama. And at times, even if he never thought it clearly in his head, Tobirama felt like his brother had forgotten him. Like he wasn’t really special - a little plant among the dozens of other plants that needed sustaining water. 

Hashirama was the only one for Tobirama. But Tobirama was just one of many for Hashirama. A sheep among the herd - adored, yes, but sometimes overlooked in a sea of white coats. Hashirama was a shepherd and he understandably had to have an eye on every of his charges. 

It was honorable, naturally, and it had to be exhausting, Tobirama often thought, trying to see the best in it. But he never could help the feelings 

of inadequacy. Jealousy. 

The whole thing started slowly. So gingerly, in fact, that Tobirama with all his sharp wits and senses had simply not noticed it happening. Until it was just there. 

Madara wasn’t a man of physical closeness either, as far as Tobirama witnessed it. There was the rare hug he shared with his brother, but other than that he kept his distance. For good reason too, probably. Clan heads lived dangerously and as Madara was a skilled shinobi, closeness had likely been trained out of him during the years.

All of these factors contributed to the confusion, almost shock, when one morning at breakfast, Madara joined him. Putting down a cup of tea for him and a large hand softly landed on Tobirama’s shoulder. It almost startled him, that’s how unexpected it was. Everything was so ordinary until that moment - and as soon as it happened, it was already gone. Madara went about his usual behavior and Tobirama just sat there, a feeling burning on his shoulder as if the hand was still there. 

And it continued like that, over days and weeks. Small, deliberate touches - a hand on his, on his shoulders, his upper arms. It grew bolder, little by little overtime. But it happened so slowly that Tobirama almost thought he was imagining things; but that couldn’t be, could it? Madara was a man of thought and deliberation, he just didn’t throw around affection.

In quiet thoughts Tobirama admitted to himself that he kind of liked it. The small touches. They were different from Hashirama’s, there was no brotherly affection behind them - Madara was his husband. Which meant that the touches got a whole other meaning. But Tobirama didn’t hate it, even though he really wanted to at first. There was bravery in him, to let happen whatever was happening; to be bold once again. 

To let Madara open this new, undiscovered door. For them both to go through.

But at times, Tobirama doubted. Doubted a lot. Ever since he had the uncomfortable talk with Hikaku, he hadn’t seen him again. And it was still so unbelievable what he had told him: that he, Tobirama, was actually desirable. Beautiful even. All his life he thought that these simply weren’t words meant for him. Exotic, perhaps, if you were kind. Freakish if you weren’t. And the people in his life often hadn’t been. Even the Uchiha themselves cursed him a demon, so it was hard to truly believe that someone could see anything else but that in him.

Especially someone like Uchiha Madara, who was everything someone could want. Strong and capable, able-bodied, smart with leading qualities, brave and confident. And, on top of it all, handsome. Tobirama often heard Uchiha women talk about how attractive their Lord was. And he had seen it himself, kind of, that one morning. 

He yearned to touch that hair, sometimes. 

Why would Madara want him? He didn’t know. He didn’t have anything to give but his old name, that had come packaged with peace. But that didn’t have anything to do with him, Tobirama. He didn’t have those amazing qualities that the spouse of a clan head should have: he wasn’t really that confident, but awkward instead. He was a cripple. And, in his opinion, really not pretty at all.

And, at the very peak of it all, there was still so much resentment in him. Even though he didn’t hate the closeness he was experiencing, he felt like he was torn apart. Between the side of him that loved it, yearned for it - and the other side, that sharply reminded him who gave him this affection and what this man had done to him and his family. It was like having a split personality at times, almost leaning into the warm body next to him in the morning to barely stopping himself from jerking away in the evening, when Madara caressed his shoulder. 

Did he hate Madara?

He didn’t know anymore. It was all so very confusing, he had been so sure of his hate, but Madara had taken it and accepted it - not letting himself deter from Tobirama. Tobirama was so sure that after his sickness and his words of rejection there would be cold distance, the more opened up Madara replaced with the hard and abrasive one from the beginning. But instead, Madara had opened up even more. And now Tobirama wasn’t sure of his hatred anymore.

Was it betrayal? He had asked Kawarama this at his grave and had never received an answer - it was no question that anyone could answer him. Not even himself. If he gave in, if he fell into Madara’s arms: would he be a traitor? And to whom: the Senju or himself?

He didn’t know. And it tore him apart, bit by bit. All he wanted was clarity, but didn’t know where his own heart swayed.

With spring came opportunities. The travel routes and roads were free of obstacles and no longer dangerous to travel on because of harsh weather, which meant that carriers and envoys picked up in activity again.

The news of the marriage between Madara and Tobirama, the union between an Uchiha and a Senju, only now reached other clans as well. But even with the delay it set off a storm. Requests upon requests flew in or were handed to the gate guards, asking for negotiations or general approximation. Clans that had been abrasive or hostile before were heavily rethinking their positions; two of the most powerful clans had merged in a marriage and set aside their differences. The Uchiha and Senju made an influential and strong combination - it was strategically unwise to be on non-friendly terms. 

There was curiosity about him as well, Tobirama assumed, but didn’t put too much thought into it. Couldn't. 

“Tobirama.” Madara’s hand was on his back as he sat next to him. The warmth of it radiated through the fabric of his yukata, a burning sensation like someone had pressed a hot piece of coal on his skin instead - he didn’t know if Madara really ran that hot, or if he was just imagining things. 

“Madara-sama.” He acknowledged, making a little space so the other could comfortably settle. It still seemed impossible to let the “-sama” suffix go, even though Madara had asked him to multiple times. The politeness, it seemed to him at times, was the only thing he still had to keep himself at a distance. 

“I’ve received quite a lot of requests over the past weeks, from other clans inquiring about possible negotiations. I’m sure that you have noticed.” Madara said.

Tobirama nodded, though he didn’t quite see where Madara wanted to go with the topic yet. “I have. Difficult not to.”

“Hm,” He agreed, “With some I’m not willing to negotiate. But others are very interesting to the further development of our clan. The Nara clan has sent in a request as well.”

It didn’t surprise Tobirama, as the Nara clan was intelligent and opportunistic. It wouldn’t have made sense for them not to send in a request after learning of the peace between the Uchiha and the Senju. 

“I am willing to invite them here, to evaluate where talks might go. To have the Nara clan as allies would strengthen our clan further.” Madara continued, “Your brother has told me that your intelligence rivals that of the members of the Nara main line. And I’m inclined to agree.”

Tobirama felt himself blush and quickly averted his gaze. That statement was ridiculous to him - while he prided himself with his own intelligence, he severely doubted that he was as smart as a main line Nara. Hashirama just liked to exaggerate and Madara just didn’t know him that well yet. Nonetheless he didn’t protest and waited for the other to continue, to get to the point that he obviously wanted to make. 

“Therefore I want you at my side during the talks, to advise me and keep an eye on the Nara delegation. Your sensory abilities would help greatly as well.” Madara stated. 

It surprised Tobirama so much that his head snapped back towards his husband. “I–” He began, but quickly realized that he didn’t quite know what to say, “I– Yes, of course, Madara-sama. Though I am not quite sure–”

“I am sure, Tobirama.” Madara interrupted him, “Your addition will do great in these negotiations. It already was when we sat on different sides of the table.” 

The clan head spoke, the clan head decided.

It, again, was no question if Tobirama wanted to. Madara wanted him at his side during these talks and he would be there, no doubt. Not that he was opposed to it, quite the opposite. He delighted in finally getting the opportunity to be useful: but the thought of people perceiving him still made him squirmish and uncomfortable. He had gotten used to Madara, Izuna, Hikaku… the Uchiha in general. But those were technically his clan - the Nara were outsiders. But it would be of no use to try to refuse. Sooner or later he’d have to get used to it, as the husband of the Uchiha clan head. 

And Tobirama obviously hadn’t missed how Madara’s decision was a huge, important shift in responsibilities. From virtually none to an advisory position in significant political negotiations. Was this a test? Was he being put under scrutiny? Tobirama shifted in sudden, swelling anxiety.

“Won’t Izuna-san be attending?” He couldn’t help but ask.

“No. Izuna has little interest in political endeavors or clan business. Nor would his temper be…fit for it.” It made sense, though Tobirama didn’t say it. 

“And Hikaku-san?” He inquired, not thinking too much about it except for the fact that Hikaku was Madara’s primary advisor. 

Suddenly, there was a certain stiffness gripping Madara’s body - Tobirama could actually feel it happening. His chakra soured minimally and Tobirama didn’t understand why. 

“Yes, of course.”

Trying to shake the sudden change in mood, Tobirama straightened. “Well, I naturally will support you in these negotiations, Madara-sama. If you truly think that my opinion has a place there.”

“Hm,” It came back, “I really do think so.”

The Nara delegation came sooner than Tobirama had expected them to. But perhaps Madara had deliberately waited to inform him of his new position. It didn’t help the lingering nervousness flushing in his system, but he had sworn to pull through, no matter what.

Nara chakra was difficult to describe. It seemed very akin to Senju chakra, given that the Nara clan had close connection to the forest as well - their bond with the deer was famous, next to their shadow jutsu. They had been close to the Senju for a long time, though bonds were strained for a couple of years now. War and feuds, even if not between the Senju and Nara, weighed heavily on the previous friendliness. 

They were standing on the compound square, waiting for them to arrive. Tobirama on Madara’s right, Hikaku on his left, but a couple of steps behind. When the Nara did arrive, it was no question who of them was the clan head - his chakra signature was strong, complicated and imposing. 

“Nara Shikai,” Madara said and his voice carried strength, “It has been some time.”

“It has, hasn’t it?” The Nara’s voice was gruff, but nowhere near the dark rasp of Madara’s.

Tobirama wasn’t aware that they had met before, but with the way they greeted it seemed obvious. And it made sense that negotiation attempts, talks of sorts, had happened before; but Tobirama somehow thought that he should’ve known beforehand. Now he felt left out, swimming in foreign waters. The whole party of people walked towards the compound hall, where the negotiation would be held. 

“How long will you be staying?” Madara asked.

“Three days,” Nara Shikai answered, but Tobirama didn’t fully listen to what came after. He was too busy analyzing who had traveled with the Nara party. They all seemed like regular shinobi of the respected clan, but something didn’t feel quite right. His stomach was queasy, but no matter how in depth he was feeling for their chakra, he couldn’t figure out why. Distinctly uncomfortable he still decided to let it go for the time being, following his husband inside when they arrived. 

After they all had settled, the Nara clan introduced themselves - except for Nara Shikai, who Madara already seemed to know. 

“I’m sure you have heard,” Madara said at some point, his voice carefully neutral “I am married now. This is Uchiha Tobirama, formerly Senju Tobirama.”

Tobirama felt many eyes suddenly shift towards him. He should be used to it by now, but he simply wasn’t. He shifted, swallowing down the nervous ball in his throat.

“I am pleased to meet you.” He said politely, bowing his head a little in greeting.

“I did hear…” Nara Shikai said, his tone strangely thoughtful, “Though at first I dismissed it as a rumor. It seemed very outlandish to me, given the severity of your conflict.”

“Hm,” Madara seemed unwilling to comment, but forced to, “It was time to find a solution. Both of our clans grew tired of the everlasting conflict.”

It was something everyone understood. Clans fighting clans, blood enmity, revanchism. These things were familiar to every clan, though the Uchiha and Senju were most known for it. So the Nara didn’t comment any further on it. 

“Shall we begin?” Madara broke the topic.

“Indeed.”

It all went very smoothly. Almost too smoothly for clan business. The Nara, in Madara’s experience, had never been an overly complicated clan - they had their rationality and mostly were above emotional-driven feuds. It made a lot of things easier, especially when negotiating terms. Nara Shikai, whom Madara had met a couple of times beforehand by chance, seemed to have an exact idea as to what he wanted out of the talks: trade and battle aid. It was clear-cut and Madara was able to work with it well, which he was grateful for.

On day two, Madara thought everything was cut and dried. They had agreed on most terms and were only figuring out further details. 

“One more thing,” Shikai said after they had laid aside most topics, “When I learned of your marriage, I was actually hoping that my clan could strengthen their bonds with the Senju as well.”

Madara understood. He would’ve thought so as well, would he have been in Shikai’s position. 

“I see,” He responded, “Well, I do not have any influence on the Senju clan, I could put in a good word towards their clan head for you, but–” He put his hand deliberately on Tobirama’s shoulder, who had, mostly quietly, sat next to him during the talks, “–he is the one who could possibly speak for them.”

To be fair, Madara had put his husband on the spot. And he half expected him to flounder a bit in the unexpected shift of attention he knew Tobirama was uncomfortable in. But he barely blinked.

“It depends on what you are hoping to achieve, Nara-san.” He cocked his head a little, “I personally don’t know why our clans bonds have weakened. You should just try writing my brother a letter. I’m sure he won’t turn you down. But I will write to Hashirama, so that he’ll hear you out.”

Shikai had a strange expression on his face that seemed to be a mixture of contemplation and curiosity. Madara kind of hated it. But, then again, he seemed to hate everyone who looked at his husband with anything more positive than careful neutrality.

“I will do that. I wasn’t sure if a letter was welcome. Thank you, Tobirama-san.” It was too friendly, for Madara’s taste.

“We will take a break,” He said briskly, “And return in half an hour.”

A strange tension fell over the room.

Tobirama was outside, soaking in the last rays of sun spreading over the garden before it would go down.

“We knew the Senju had secrets, but our intelligence would’ve never suspected you.” Nara Shikai’s voice said behind him. Tobirama had felt him coming. “You were a very well kept secret, weren’t you?”

“What is it to you?” He turned, to face the man, “I may have been sheltered, but now I am not. I'm no secret anymore, it lies in the past.”

“Hm,” The clan head sounded actually thoughtful, “It may be the past, but past drags into present, drags into future. You are definitely not dense, I’ve seen you giving whispered advice to your husband. And with intelligence and skill you can fool many people, but not me.”

“Is there a point you are trying to make?” Tobirama threw back, feeling impatient. He hated when people weren’t straightforward. 

“My point is, that you couldn’t have been sheltered, given what a skilled shinobi you are.”

Tobirama snorted a little. “You haven’t seen anything about my skills. How are you assuming that I’m a shinobi? And even if I were, I could have gathered skills without leaving my clan’s shelters.”

Of course Nara Shikai was right. But Tobirama didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right. He could basically hear the smirk in the Nara’s voice.

“It is rather obvious for those who know how to look properly.”

Tobirama snarled silently at that and immediately scolded himself for doing so afterward, schooling his face back into careful neutrality, hoping that the clan head hadn’t seen it. He unfortunately had. 

“I’m not here to offend or antagonize you, Tobirama-san.” The other sounded apologetic, “What I want to say is that your past will someday drag into your present. Have you considered that?”

Of course he had. The looming doom of almost being responsible for Izuna’s death constantly pressed on the back of his mind, like a tumor nestling, spreading in his brain. Being reminded like this brought back spine crawling anxiety - his skin flushed coldy as he turned.

“What do you know? Why are you telling me this?” He asked sternly.

“I know nothing,” Shikai said appeasingly and it sounded like the truth, “I just suspect. And believe it or not, a lot is dependent on your marriage working out, Tobirama-san. Not only the peace between your clan and the Uchiha. The Nara have prospered, ever since your feud has been laid aside. I hope to keep this prosperity.” So it was rationality, in the end, Tobirama mused “I have been told that my advice is useful. I hope you take it: whatever secret still remains between the two of you should be revealed.”

Before Tobirama could answer, Shikai left. Just left, without another word. 

And Tobirama told himself that this conversation shouldn’t affect him: that the Nara simply was intelligent and perceptive, simply guessing that there were some dark things left unsaid in a marriage between a Senju and an Uchiha. That he acted in the best interest of his clan and didn’t truly know, nor mean to stir up the secret Tobirama was hiding.

But no matter how many calming thoughts he conjured up, the dread weighed them back down again. If he was honest with himself he hadn’t spent too many thoughts on what Madara would do should he ever find out - the only thing he knew was that it would be horrific.

He should never tell. Never. Not when Madara’s presence had just begun to feel soothing, calming, all around good. Making him actually feel happy, his heart giddily beating in excitement. It all would be ruined. And he’d be back being a demon again. 

Murder. Truth. Blood. Sin. 

Suddenly feeling sick he hurried back inside.

All had been said and done. A few small contracts had been signed and Madara actually felt satisfied with the results. Judging from the relaxed expression on Shikai’s face, he thought the same. 

“I’m glad it has turned out this well,” He said and leaned back on his heels. Some of his party members fidgeted around, stowing away paper and contracts.

“I am, too. It has always been quite a pleasure, Nara Shikai.” Madara responded. Shikai’s father had been much more unpleasant, as far as he remembered.

Shikai inclined his head, agreeing. In the corner of his eyes Madara noticed his husband fidgeting, but thought nothing of it. “I can only give it back to you, Madara-san,” the other hummed, “Though it has been a while, this was–”

As shinobi business was, it all happened very suddenly. 

He only heard how Tobirama desperately exclaimed his name and his body, arms stretched out, suddenly thrusted in front of him, blocking his view - the distinct noise of a kunai flying alerted every alarm bell in his body. His muscles tensed, his eyes sharpened and he saw it, in direct course targeting him. Except that Tobirama already was in front of him and the kunai hit, deflecting on his arms and throwing his husband back. Specks of blood flew.

Chaos broke in the room - one Nara was standing, backed into a corner: the perpetrator. Hikaku and the other Uchiha guarding the room pounced on the man, but it seemed to be too late. The eyes rolled back and he collapsed, pink foam at the mouth and a gurgling noise made it clear that he was already dying. Madara stood, immediately and furiously looking at Nara Shikai, who’s expression was of honest bewilderment and shock.

“What is going on here?!” Madara yelled.

“I honestly don’t know, but one of my own tried–” Nara Shikai stood, rushing over to the man who was surrounded by Uchiha, “No, it can’t be! This is one of my most trusted men, he wouldn’t–”

As he said it, the man’s image started to shift and soon the man on the ground did look nothing like a Nara. It became immediately obvious what had happened.

“Henge.” Hikaku stated seriously, kicking the body, “Madara-sama, we have to investigate–”

“Then do that!” He barked, as he smoothly glided towards the floor, where Tobirama was holding his profusely bleeding arm, "I have more important things to tend to right now!”

Madara was confident that Hikaku would be able to handle the aftermath and so he held on tightly and teleported both of them towards the main house, where they crashed on their futon. The torn sleeve of Tobirama's blue yukata had darkened in shade, soaked with blood. Some of it trickled down his hand in streams. Madara hurried for a first aid kit, only to kneel in front of Tobirama when he retrieved it. 

"Show me your arm." He commanded gently, reaching for his husband. 

"You don't have to worry, Madara-sama," Tobirama said and his voice was dimmed, as if he wanted to calm him, "It is only a flesh wound. I've had worse."

Nonetheless he pulled the torn fabric back, revealing a nasty, wildly bleeding, long cut in his forearm. Madara took the arm gently, before pressing on some cloth to prevent the wound from bleeding any further. Perfectly pale skin, dark red blood. A contrast he really ought to stop thinking of as beautiful, but he couldn't help it. Even horrid things like blood looked good on him…

“It seems I’ve been the target of an assasination attempt,” Madara mumbled, trying to put his thoughts into words. 

Tobirama hummed. “I’ve had a bad feeling since the beginning, but couldn’t properly point it out. Their chakra didn’t seem wrong until a few moments before it happened.”

Madara frowned at that, now removing the cloth and pressing the cut together to start wrapping it up tightly in bandages. It would only be a temporary solution, a cut like that would have to be sewn together - but he was no medic. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Tobirama shook his head. “It would’ve been no use. It was just that: a feeling. I wouldn’t have had an indication to go off of,” His eyes wandered to the side, as he seemed to be thinking, “It had to be an extremely advanced henge to even fool me with their chakra signature. I don’t know who that individual was, but I don’t think he was the shinobi who was the henge’s creator.”

“A pawn, then?” Madara concluded. It made sense. “It would explain their sloppy kunai work. And that they used a kunai in the first place. It takes a lot more to injure or kill me.”

They fell into a short silence while Madara carefully worked the bandages around Tobirama’s forearm. “You shouldn’t have jumped in front of it. I would’ve been able to deal with it fine, Tobirama.” 

The other shrugged softly. “It was instinct. I didn’t–” He took a breather, “I didn’t want you to deal with the kunai yourself. You shouldn’t get hurt.”

It was weird to hear him, out of all people, say that. Madara didn’t respond at first, as he didn’t know how to. Instead, he carefully finished wrapping up his husband's arm. Soft sunlight of an early evening spring sun shone through the windows, illuminating the room brightly, while also throwing hard shadows. He saw dust dancing in the rays as he ripped the ends of the bandage to tie them together, fastening it on Tobirama’s wrist and securing the wrapping. 

“It seems as though you constantly get hurt by me.” He said softly, his fingers trailing the white, rough fabric on the arm. 

“You don’t mean to.” Tobirama responded, equally soft, as if he had already apologized to himself in Madara’s name.

Madara shook his head. “Not this time no,” He swallowed, uncharacteristically hesitant, “In the beginning though, I–”

He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t confess to Tobirama how terrible he actually was. How he had taken him with the intention of hurt; uncaring, if he broke because of his own selfish plans of revenge. 

An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. Until it’s your own eye. Your own tooth. Until you begin to care for the one you crippled. Until no one can see, no one can speak. 

He dared to look up. His heart squeezed terribly at the sight, as if he had gripped it himself, clenching it in a fist with all his might. Tobirama’s form was partially drenched in the soft sun; his hair, now illuminated differently than Madara had ever seen before, hung into his face like glittering ice crystals. His face was soft and hardened at the same time, the shadows underlining and contouring his unique features. Light was caught in his left eye and the shades it brought out in that brilliant, fascinating red were indescribable. Madara noticed how he held his breath. He had seen him so many times and yet never like this.

And again he couldn’t. Couldn’t stop himself from being selfish, couldn’t stop himself from taking. He closed the distance, slowly, half of his mind still reminding him that Tobirama should have the chance to pull away. Still, his hand found Tobirama’s cheek  - his heart beat violently when he didn’t actually turn away, but leaned closer himself. 

“Madara.” Nothing more than a whisper.

So Madara pressed his lips on Tobirama’s, softly, carefully and it was like heaven on earth - he was enlightened, blessed by a Blessed; as if he had sought truth and found it here. His husband’s mouth underneath his in the lightest, most precious kiss he had ever given someone. 

And his hungry heart cheered. 

Ah, Love! Could thou and I with Fate conspire

To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,

Would not we shatter it to bits– and then

Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!

[LXXIII. - The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam]

Chapter Text

XII.

Tobirama never felt like this before. It was like his heart exploding, stars coming down in a supernova and settling in his chest - brilliant, bright, sparkling inside him and filling all of him with warmth, traveling down his limbs. It was as if time had stood still and there was only Madara and him, him and Madara, in his small bubble of brilliance  and joy. The Kami were real, he knew then, because what else could he do but believe in gods when he was feeling like this? Until this point he would’ve never even suspected that one could feel this good - giddy, overflowing, as if happiness was seeping out of him.

A warm hand was on his cheek - he felt the roughness of its fingertips on his skin. It used to be so incredibly hot, as if it burned him, but now it felt like snuggling into a soft blanket. And, most importantly, there were lips on his; soft and coarse at the same time, carefully moving against his with a heartaching tenderness. Tobirama thought he’d had his first kiss before - at the wedding, with the same man that was kissing him now.

But that hadn’t been a kiss. This was. Slow, gentle pecks - he didn’t know when they had partially opened their mouths, but they had - so tangibly filled with emotions from both sides that it was almost too much to handle. Madara’s chakra was thick and hot, curling tightly around him as if it wanted to consume him as well. All of what was now was Madara and he almost drowned in it.

It could’ve been hours and Tobirama wouldn’t have minded. Still at some point Madara held back from kissing him any further, resting his head against Tobirama’s. His hand didn’t move from his cheek, though his thumb now began softly stroking it.

“I do not wish to hurt you anymore, Tobirama,” He whispered, his voice gruff, “Not ever. I know it is selfish of me to want you, after all that has happened. But I’m not a good man.”

Their kiss still tingled on Tobirama’s lips as he tried to process what Madara had said. This close he could see the darkness of his eyes - there had been a time where those eyes had caused hatred in him, repulsion. Fear, too. But now he couldn’t help but see all of him in them - warmth, longing, stubbornness, hope. They were so expressional this close, so telling. Tobirama’s heart was leaping into his throat. He should have hated it, but couldn’t.

“Promise me,” He whispered back and his voice felt unstable, “I don’t think I can handle it if you lie to me, Madara–”

“I’m not lying.” The other promised fervently, “You captivate me in a way no one ever has. Just looking at you makes me feel like a different person. I promise, Tobirama, if you will have me, then–”

Tobirama didn’t think he could bear hearing any more, or his heart would’ve just exploded. Instead he surged forward with a purpose, meeting Madara’s lips in a desperate and longing hunger, wrapping his arms behind his neck and clinging to him like he was drowning. And Madara, just as desperately, kissed back.

After Tobirama had his wounds properly cared for by a medic, he fell asleep on their shared futon. Madara carefully swept some strands of hair out of his face - he looked peaceful like this, not concerned, nor stressed, wearing a constant frown. Madara swore to himself that he would work to banish these negative expressions from Tobirama's face forever. He should never be concerned and stressed anymore, nor should he have a reason to frown. 

The conflict he once held inside of him, which had gripped him tightly - of how he could appreciate a Senju this much - seemed to have dwindled, drowned in an odd adoration. Sometimes he asked himself how it could've happened, that his bitter resentment that he held for many years simply vanished. But the answer was always easily delivered, when he saw Tobirama for who he was: strong, withstanding, intelligent and yet at the same time sensitive and reflective. Vulnerable, but not in a weak way. That he was hurt again now was unacceptable. 

An assassination attempt meant for him, Madara. It certainly wouldn't be the first time someone tried to kill him. Never would he have thought that Tobirama would try to intervene, not in the way he did. It boiled his blood, to know that someone so foolishly attacked what was his. Madara never cared much for his own hurt. But if it was someone dear to him, it was an entirely different thing altogether - nothing managed to enrage him more. The fire in him burned for everyone close to him in his life. 

The fine strands of hair felt soft even in between his coarse fingers. What did Tobirama mean to him? He wasn't entirely sure. He appreciated him a lot, he was dear to him, no doubt. He wanted him, in every way. But he wasn't able to put a label on it: as everything was with Tobirama, it seemed complicated. Madara was never one to contemplate too much about his feelings anyway - too much thought spent on things like these, were thoughts that lacked in other places.

He let the hair go. An attempt on his life had been made. And it was of uttermost importance to know who was behind it.

Hikaku has seen many dead bodies in his life. None of them were ever pretty.

There were the ones that fell in battle: death by a blade, be it sword, kunai or similar, was always a nasty business. Even if they were talented enough in chakra control or nin-healing to slow down the process, they more often than not bled to death like pigs. Once an artery was hit there was little chance: within seconds your life was gone. And who ever managed to put on a tourniquet in the midst of battle? Relatives often wanted to see their loved one before they’d be burned on the pyre and so the bodies had to be cleaned, the blood drenched clothing cut from their bodies. He was glad in times like these that he wasn't a mortician. 

It was even worse if they had been subjected to jutsus. Similar to fire style jutsus, lighting burned. He had seen bodies burned to a crisp, charred beyond recognition. After a hard battle against the Hatake clan, one of their own had only been able to be identified by his golden tooth. It was weird how people who died by lightning, Hikaku often thought, as they were cramped up, their muscles tense. It really wasn’t any better with shinobi who had been crushed by earth style jutsus - and if they were only able to scout the battlefields for their dead after a long time, those who died in the water were one of the worst. He shuddered at the memory of the bloated, puffy bodies of drowned, stench so putried and vile that he had vomited the first time he smelled it. 

It got easier over time.

And this one was so harmless to look at. After he had seen so many bodies, he had become dull to the sight. 

The assassin was lying on the mortician's table. After the henge had vanished he truly looked nothing like a Nara: perhaps thirty, dirty blonde, flat hair, facial features not belonging to the clan either. The skin was dull and gray, a bit waxy, as the skin of corpses usually tended to be after a while. His gray eyes were glassy and empty, staring into nothingness - the area around his mouth cracked up and rough. The foam that had formed in his mouth when he died had apparently been a side product of saliva mixed with a quick reacting acid that likely was the  cause of death. In the panic of arriving death it seemed as if he had bitten off the tip of his tongue, which explained why the foam had been slightly pink. The blood had stained it. 

Hikaku frowned. Had he planned his suicide in case the assasination went wrong, or did someone else induce his death? He grabbed the body without hesitation, trying to haul it on its side which was difficult, as rigor mortis had already set in. But a view of his back didn’t reveal anything either. Carefully, Hikaku rolled him back and began undressing him. The man didn’t quite seem like an experienced shinobi: more like a crook, someone for hire. But the throw of the kunai had been good enough to assume that he had been a seasoned crook. 

A show of the body revealed nothing extraordinary. The man was decently scarred, which supported Hikaku’s theory. But a seasoned crook wouldn’t necessarily take any stupid risks: infiltrating the Nara clan to try to kill Uchiha Madara at a highly political negotiation was the most dangerous risk one could possibly take. Either the man had been stricken by a bad situation he was in, leaving him no choice but to do this job, or his client had been very convincing.

Hikaku glanced at the empty, slack face. There was no way this man hadn’t been hired. But it all didn’t add up - the sloppiness with the incredible skill of infiltrating the Nara clan. Was the assasination meant to fail? But what good would that be? He felt how the frown on his face deepened. One thing was clear: his Lord was being targeted and Hikaku didn’t doubt for even one second that this targation wasn’t meant to lead to his death.

Before he left the body however, a suspicion crept into his train of thoughts. He pried open the tightened jaw, inspecting the tongue. At first it didn’t seem to lead to anything, until he looked at the underside: and there it was, the proof.

An intricate, blocky and dark seal.

“Whoever managed to get him into my ranks has to be incredibly skilled,” Nara Shikai grumbled, deep lines of stress in his face making him seem older than he actually was, “My clan member was found. He’d been murdered and replaced even before we started the journey.”

Madara scrutinized the smaller man, but only found taut restlessness and veiled grief behind his body language. “He was close to me. I knew him for a long time. He was a skilled shinobi that wouldn’t be easily killed,” He bit and his hardened gaze met Madara’s, “Whoever has it out for your life is definitely willing to make an enemy with the Nara clan as well. There is no way I can forgive what has conspired.”

That had him thinking. Absent-mindedly he let his gaze rest on Shikai until he had regarded his train of thought. “Could this even be a political matter, then?” He questioned, “Who in their right mind would want the Uchiha and the Nara as their enemy? For what gain?”

Shikai shook his head. “I can’t tell yet. We will travel back this afternoon, seeing as I have to handle some internal clan business. I will write to you, should investigations on our side bear fruits.”

Naturally Shikai would want to find out how the unknown mastermind and perpetrator was able to smuggle the assassin into the Nara ranks, right under his nose. If there was one leak, the whole clan was endangered. Madara remembered that Shikai had only recently married as well. Understandingly he simply nodded.

From the geometric lines and their formation he could definitely tell that it was a seal. He was twisting the paper in his hand, against the light. 

“What is it?” He asked, simply to get his advisor to tell his every thought.

“A rather complicated seal,” Hikaku stated, “I found it on the underside of the assassin’s tongue.”

“Nobody was supposed to see it,” Madara concluded.

“That’s what I think as well. So far I was unfortunately not able to find out which origin it has. Its formation and line nature is unfamiliar to me.”

Madara frowned. He didn’t recognize it either. “Me neither.” He murmured, then, louder: “How come it was still there? Usually seals dissolve when their fixation object dies.”

Hikaku inclined his head, long hair falling slightly from his back into the crook of his neck. His hair had grown, Madara noticed, when back in the day Hikaku usually kept it at one length. He wondered why, but already had his mood-darkening suspicions. He decided to ignore it. “Usual seals do. But this one seems to be special. The secrets that it was protecting haven’t been told, which likely would’ve caused its dissolution. If the seal’s creator tried to include a dissolution at the death of its fixation object, I suspect the seal would’ve become too complicated.”

“So it’s an individual seal? Not associated with a clan?” Madara asked.

“No, that I wouldn’t say. I do think it has clan affiliation, but I cannot tell which clan it is yet.”

Madara wasn’t skilled at seals. His talents laid elsewhere. So no matter how he twisted and turned the sketch Hikaku had brought him, it would never make sense to him. But then, an idea came to him - it was so logical that he had simply overlooked it. He glanced towards his advisor.

“Hikaku, fetch Tobirama for me.”

Tobirama had to hold the paper almost against his face, to properly see all shapes of the seal. He was painfully aware of how ridiculous it must've looked, but Madara didn't seem fazed. As he tried recognizing it he broke the tense silence. 

"How come you asked me?" Putting down the piece of paper. 

"Why shouldn't I?" Madara asked, "You are my spouse. I value your opinion. Additionally, you have intricate facial seals that I assume you created yourself. It can only mean that you are a seal master, Tobirama."

Tobirama felt how he blushed at the compliment. He indeed was talented with seals - but he didn't know what to make of Madara's comment of 'valuing his opinion'. Surely, their trust hadn’t built that far yet?

After a while he began to recognize the patterns and an uncomfortable feeling spread in his stomach. He knew from the beginning that there was something familiar about it, but wasn’t able to pinpoint it until now. Frowning, he handed the piece of paper back.

“I know the seal,” He said, trying to keep the worry out of his tone, “It is of Senju origin. But it has been abandoned for quite some time, we do not use it anymore. Not in this form. It was quite harmful to whoever chose to use it and as soon as Hashirama became clan head he banned it in a wave of new clan policies. Even my father disapproved of it: no use of seal masters weakening themselves with it.”

Madara listened patiently before speaking. “Couldn’t it be that a Senju clan member still uses it? Against clan rules?” Tobirama tried hard to detect disdain in his voice, but there was none.

Tobirama inclined his head a little. “I thought so myself, but–” He walked closer to the table where Madara had placed the drawing, “I found it strange that I wasn’t able to recognize it straight away. I’m a seal master and should be familiar with clan seals, even the forbidden ones. But it took me so long because this one–” He pointed towards a few sharp edges in the seal, '' –has been bastardized. It’s not the original seal. One of the many advantages of it has been that, if one wanted to, it could be improvised and changed at will. For varying results.”

Madara grunted thoughtfully. “So it could’ve been a Senju, but the likelihood of the creator not being one is just as high?”

“I know you’ll think I'm biased, but I think the creator is definitely not a Senju. They wouldn’t have changed it this much. But it could be that a Senju sold this secret seal, which is akin to treason.” Tobirama said.

There was silence and Tobirama knew Madara was thinking. He just hoped that by admitting that it was a Senju symbol he had not lost Madara’s favor. 

“Alright. At the moment, the seal means nothing to us. Hikaku, try to find out the assassin’s identity.”

Hikaku agreed and left shortly after. Tobirama still stood there, awkwardly, not knowing if he was dismissed as well. Nervousness was clinging to him the past days, ever since Madara and him kissed. Was it a moment of weakness for Madara? Would Tobirama lose the affection, should he do wrong again? It all felt so sudden and flimsy and frail. Perhaps it was all just a lapse of judgment. Who in their right mind would want him that way?

“Come here, Tobirama.” Madara suddenly said and stood. 

Not knowing what would await him, he was a little reluctant, but overcame himself. Unexpectedly, two hands found his face and Madara gently pulled him even closer.

“Don’t look so frightened, Tobirama. What’s the matter?” He asked softly, pressing a gentle kiss on his mouth.

So it hadn’t been a dream. Not a product of his wild imagination. An embarrassing, painful fantasy of a hideous cripple. Madara truly had kissed him, had said all these sweet things to him. And his stronghold had crumbled, just like that and he was soft, soft in his arms. This man could have anyone, but he chose Tobirama. Just like in the beginning. But this time it was different, no?

Do you see me now, father? A little love and I break; you would hate me, father, but you always have anyways, haven't you? 

Without any guilt, Tobirama leaned into his husband’s touch.

“It is nothing. I just… worry.” He mumbled, closing his eyes. He wanted to feel the touch properly, memorize it, store it away in fondness. He was able to do it best whenever he wasn’t seeing anything at all. 

“You won’t need to worry, Tobirama,” Madara responded, his thumbs gently stroking his cheeks, “We will find whoever is behind this.”

Tobirama couldn’t bring himself to tell him that this wasn’t what he meant.

Indeed, how could it all have happened? 

He didn’t quite know anymore. After he finally dared to kiss his own husband, everything that came before seemed ridiculous, silly even. It was as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes and a gray, dark world was now suddenly bright and clear; as if he could finally see truth. 

The truth that was Tobirama. He delighted in watching him now, stealing glances whenever they were in the same room. He couldn’t help it. But now it didn’t feel sinful any longer; it felt right.

How could I have been so blind? Madara thought as he was sitting in his office on a late evening, candle light illuminating a report by Hikaku that he had mindlessly abandoned. My eyes see all and yet they’ve missed. My mind is sharp, yet it was too dull to realize. Has it always been my fault?

There were whispers in his mind that affirmed that notion and he felt it pull at his heart in an uncomfortable, vulnerable way. Not a good man. That was what he had told Tobirama what he was. And he was right. Madara understood this and yet he still couldn’t bring himself to better himself: the right thing to do was to let Tobirama go, to let him leave and go back to his family, where he rightfully belonged. He wasn’t fitting here, Madara feared that he would never be. 

Madara wasn’t a good man. He would keep him here, would keep him close. Close to him, for himself. Because Tobirama was his husband. His. 

He sighed, staring down at the words he hadn’t properly read. And he abandoned his office completely, drawn to their shared bedroom. Drawn to Tobirama.

Tobirama awoke as he pulled back the blanket. With bleary eyes he looked up at him, gaze unfocused and tired. As Madara settled next to him he reached towards his face, brushing away some stray hairs as he gently caressed his cheek - Tobirama let it happen, snuggling further into the pillow, but seemingly determined to stay awake.

“Sleep,” Madara murmured and pressed a soft kiss on his husband’s mouth, “I will, too.”

Tobirama nodded gently, letting his eyes fall shut. Madara tugged him close, his arms sneaking around Tobirama’s warm body, burying his nose in the soft strands of white hair. Tobirama’s head rested on his chest; would he be able to hear his excited, beating heart? Probably, as his husband was of good hearing. But this didn’t deter Madara, as in a strange delight of knowing this, held him in an even stronger embrace. 

Sleep came easily to him.

Hashirama felt sick. Physically sick to his stomach. His hand was balled into a fist, squeezing harshly, his fingernails burying themselves painfully in his palm - he didn’t notice. He thought that, if he moved too much, he’d have to vomit on the spot. With his face feeling drained of any color, angry flushes running down his back, he stared at the multi paged document on his desk. The words seemed blurry and clear at the same time as he read them.

He was only faintly aware how, in front of him, sat a stern and grim-faced Tōka who had brought him the papers. How, next to him, sat Mito with her hand on his shoulder, rubbing soothingly as she read the document with him. 

Hashirama had been so sure, so very sure that everything was fine. If not, Tobirama surely would’ve told him, no? But the more he read, the worse it became. After painstaking minutes of reading Tōka’s report he had finished the atrocity. There was no way to describe the anger, the guilt he felt.

“I–” He began, but swallowed, as his throat felt clogged.

Hashirama remembered Tobirama’s last letter very clearly: his brother had never been much of a writer, no poet in any sense, but his words weren’t outstandingly concerning to Hashirama.

“... slowly I have grown accustomed to this new environment. Even if there were some misunderstandings in the beginning I have managed to sort them out. My life here is good and the people are kind, given the circumstances…”

Shouldn’t he have known? As his older brother, shouldn’t he have known when Tobirama was lying? Felt it, somehow? Read it in between vague lines?

“Is this–” He tried again, barely managing to contain the tremble of anger in his voice, “Is this true, Tōka? This report?”

Tōka swallowed heavily herself, her jaw clenching in a similar anger - she had always been hot headed. That she managed to contain herself now was a miracle. She nodded, eyes hard. “I have checked with the sources multiple times, to confirm it. I didn’t want it to be true either. To think that my baby cousin is being so horribly mistreated.” She sat up straighter, “But it is the horrible truth.”

Hashirama remained silent for a long time. Words failed to come to him - too petrifying was this truth.

“Leave, Tōka. Thank you for telling me.” He said finally, dismissing her. With an austere expression, she left. 

“You couldn’t have known,” Mito said mutedly, as she brushed over his shoulder.

It was too much. “But I should have!” Hashirama yelled, anger flooding his veins. “I should’ve known! That the Uchiha abuse him! Treat him like dirt under their shoes! I–”

… several weeks after the mob’s assault that had left him wounded, Senju Tobirama fell ill. Around the compound people spread the word that Uchiha Izuna has tortured him with the sharingan. It is said that Senju Tobirama almost succumbed to the illness, if not for the intervention of Uchiha Madara…”

His little baby brother had almost died and he didn't even know. Had been sitting here, blissfully unaware, thinking it was all fine. Hashirama was filled with an unusual, all-consuming anger that left him shaking. 

"Why didn't he say anything?!" Hashirama exclaimed after a while, voice unstable from emotions. 

"Oh, Hashirama. You know Tobirama. What would've happened if he told you?" Mito asked gently. 

Hashirama worked his jaw. "I would've come and got him." 

"Right. You would've retrieved him from the Uchiha. And what would've happened then?" 

Hashirama saw where it was going. "The peace would've fallen apart. The contract would be broken."

Mito hummed. "And Tobirama, who would he have blamed for the failure of peace? The Uchiha?" 

Hashirama closed his eyes when a wave of pain and regret washed over him. "No," He said quietly, "Himself."

"Yes. He would've blamed himself. And that's why he never said anything." 

Oh, foolish, soft-hearted otouto, Hashirama thought with an aching heart, why did I never notice that you valued yourself so little. That you thought you carried every responsibility on your shoulders.

But that was a lie. Hashirama did notice and often, too. But he always willingly ignored it, turned a blind eye because in the end Tobirama always came back from his missions and he always managed to make his little brother smile - that it was only a small bandage on a gaping wound he repressed vehemently. Not willing to acknowledge that his otouto had always been hurting. He often failed him, Hashirama was painfully aware, especially when he saw the treatment their father gave him - and he was failing him now, too.

A sensitive soul, responsible and strong, yet fragile underneath. And Hashirama sold him. Sold him for peace to the Uchiha. It all made him choke. And he had no right to feel this horrible about it, not when it was all his fault. The great injustice that had been done to Tobirama. That he almost died, his last, precious brother. 

His fault. Because he was so absent minded, an air head that was too good natured to believe that someone like his childhood friend could abuse the most precious person in Hashirama's life. 

He rarely was angry. Now, he was almost blinded by it. He stood with strength. 

"Mito, I will be gone for a couple of days. I want you to lead the clan while I am gone. I'm going to get him back."

Mito's gaze softened. "Do you really want to break peace for Tobirama?" 

The question was surely rhetorical, Hashirama thought, as he caught her gaze - cold determination flushing through his veins.

"For Tobirama I'd do anything."

The small blackbird hopped along, now happily picking at green grass, in search of small insects that had begun flying and crawling.

The sun warmed the earth slowly, but surely and Tobirama couldn’t avert his gaze as the bird scurried through the eagerly growing spring flowers - it was fondness, in a sense, as he saw it gobbling down a bug. The small creature still hadn’t left the compound even during the hard, tough winter and now it was rewarded for its endurance, its will with an abundant spring. A warm, healing spring.

Was it kinship he felt? With a bird? But in a sense, they were similar - brought here unwillingly and yet, after finally gaining freedom, unwilling to leave. Finding small, but contending happiness here, with the Uchiha. Tobirama's mind wandered, gaze unfocused. 

Sudden noise from inside the compound disturbed his silence, so loud that he even heard it in the sheltered gardens of the main house: there was running, shouting and with a frown Tobirama wandered through the house on the street. Madara was nowhere in sight.

Many Uchiha were sprinting towards the main gate, their chakra a mixture of sterness, determination and panic - it disturbed Tobirama deeply and out of nowhere, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Startled, he looked up to find Hikaku next to him.

“Hikaku-san,” He said, confused, “What is going on?”

Hikaku’s chakra was calm, but the usually peaceful ocean waves felt rippled. “Your brother, Tobirama-sama. He’s here, at the front gates, threatening to tear them in.”

All the blood felt like it drained from his face. “What?” He whispered, “But why would he–”

“Well, I had hoped that you would know why. Have you sent him a letter, something that would agitate him?”

“I– no, no, I haven’t written him anything concerning,” Tobirama answered, still numb with shock, “But there is rarely anything that would move Hashirama to do such things. I–”

Hikaku took a deep breather, clearly more distressed than he let on. “I think it’s best we’ll go to the front gates as well, to clarify the situation. Lord Madara has already been summoned, as Lord Hashirama has very clearly demanded for him.”

They moved together towards the front gate, where commotion slowly grew. Anxiety gnawed at Tobirama, worry crawling through his body. Why would Hashirama be here, threatening the compound? It was so out of character for his brother that Tobirama, for a short while, considered that it may not be his brother, but an elaborate scheme to threaten the peace and make it look like it was the Senju’s fault for breaking it. 

But the closer they were, the more the sensation of Hashirama’s familiar chakra washed over his senses: the usual earthy, calm signature now alight, burning in anger like a wildfire in a way that he had never felt before. Tobirama’s heart beat wildly in his throat as he hurriedly pushed himself through the front gates along Hikaku, where he felt his husband’s chakra holding steadfastly against that of his brother.

As he ran towards Madara’s side, his shoulder accidentally bumping against his, the tension and fury in the two powerful and strong signatures almost made him choke. In an unusual instinct, he reached for Madara’s arm, his fingers burying themselves in the fabric of his yukata. Madara only acknowledged him minimally, as his gaze was aligned to the front. Hashirama didn’t come alone - at least two dozen Senju were gathered behind him.

“Tobirama!” The relieved yell of his brother reached him, “Thank the Kami, you’re alright!”

Tobirama was so taken aback by the naked worry in Hashirama’s voice that he took a deep breather, “Yes, of course. Anija, what’s going on?!”

“What’s going on? Tobirama–” He almost choked on his words, “I’ve come to take you back! As I should’ve months ago!”

“What?” Was the only thing leaving his mouth, astonishment and confusion moving him further into Madara’s side. 

“Why did you never say anything?! Tobira– I– You’ve been abused here for months and you never–”

Madara took a step forward, in a way in front of Tobirama. His fiery chakra growing in strength. “Hashirama–”

“No!” Hashirama yelled, fury lacing his voice. Tobirama almost didn’t recognize him, “You don’t get to say anything! I told you all these months ago, that he is my only brother. That he is everything to me! And what do you do, as soon as he is with you? Torture him.” He spat, “Almost kill him!”

Tobirama felt his eyes flicker. Despite what he thought, it all had seemingly found its way towards Hashirama. And that he’d react this way, for Tobirama it seemed so otherworldly, fictional even.  

“I thought of you as a friend once, Madara,” He said and his voice was cold, “But it seems you and your people never had an interest in peace. I will take Tobirama with me, your abuse ends here. You disgust me!”

The harshness of the words even made Tobirama flinch - he didn’t know such anger from his brother. Abuse. The word ghosted in his mind, as he felt Madara’s chakra sharpen, burn brighter. Abuse. Would it truly be the correct term to describe his past months? It was true that terrible things had happened to him - that he had gotten hurt, that he almost died, that his soul felt broken down on many occasions. It was true that many nights on that lonely futon in that small room he’d asked himself how he could possibly stand another day. But he was strong: couldn’t Hashirama see? Peace was more important than him.

An Uchiha in the Senju compound would’ve had a similar fate, Tobirama was sure. He himself would've been just as cruel. 

Additionally to all, every bad thing that has happened to him wasn’t Madara’s fault. Even when Tobirama wanted to blame him, driven with fever and sickness, there simply was no way to blame him. Accuse him of neglect? Perhaps. But the full blame was carried by others. Despite being married to the mortal enemy and the expected averseness, the cold treatment in the beginning: Madara had always been fair, kind in his own way and now, Tobirama could see what kind of man he was. Past the hard exterior - the soft flicker of his chakra whenever they lied close at night told him. And Tobirama couldn’t help but feel the same.

Tobirama loved his brother. But he couldn’t go with him.

“Bold of you to say,” Madara bit through his teeth, his voice dark and rough, “Now you are willing to risk peace? You gave your brother to me willingly enough.”

As soon as these words left Madara’s mouth, Tobirama’s body reacted. Because as rarely as he’d seen his brother’s anger, he knew when a line was crossed.

“You dare!” Hashirama hissed and his katana was already drawn, when Tobirama was in front of him, pushing his own body into his brother’s chest, effectively holding him back.

“Anija.” He whispered roughly, his fingers on the cold amor. 

“Step away, Tobirama.” Hashirama said with a waver in his voice, “This has to end now. His terror has to end now.”

“Anija,” He repeated, “Don’t. Not– think of peace!”

His brother took a sharp inhale, “I don’t care about the peace if it risks you, Tobira, I–”

“I know what you’ve heard, Hashirama, and it is true. But none of these things could’ve ever been faulted to Madara. None of them.”

“How can you say that, how can–”

“Because it is true!” Tobirama said, louder this time, “He has been kind when others wouldn’t have been. I could’ve told you about what was happening, but chose not to because I saw hope for the future!”

He stepped away a little when he noticed that Hashirama wasn’t pushing against him anymore, “Hope, that this situation I was in wasn’t permanent. That things would change for the better and they did! My worth is not the same as all of the lives that are being saved by this peace. Present and future. Don’t you see, Anija? I can endure and I did. I was patient and rewarded, my situation is better now! I am happy, here, with him. I can’t and won’t go with you!”

He took a deep breath. There was deafening silence, thick, curling and agitated chakra all around him.

“Do you mean it?” Hashirama finally said silently, his voice deflated, “Do you really mean it, Tobira? Isn’t he pressuring you to say it?”

Tobirama scoffed, “Why treat me like I am weak, anija? Do you really think he could pressure me into saying these things? Into staying with him?”

Two, three seconds of silence. “No,” Hashirama finally said.

Tobirama sighed. “I love you, anija. Go home, I will handle everything here and make sure this won’t end in a break of peace. I’ll write to you more, alright? Tell you properly what is going on.”

Hashirama didn’t seem alright with it, but backed down. “I love you too, Tobira. Please, if you ever need to get out of here, tell me.”

A few other words were exchanged and after about half an hour, Hashirama and the Senju shinobi that had accompanied him vanished. Tobirama stood in front of the Uchiha gates, his gaze aligned with the direction in which his brother had gone. His heart still beat like crazy from excitement, but slowly calmed down. Finally, he turned around, walking the distance back to where he saw Madara’s schemes.

“Madara, I apologize–” He began, but was interrupted as he was pulled into a hard, breath-taking hug.

“Tobirama.” 

And he uttered it like a prayer.

Chapter Text

XIII.

He was engulfed in warmth. They were alone in their room in the main house, time sometimes flowed funny whenever he was with Madara - was it because his whole attention was focused on him? So much so that he blended out whatever was going on around him? He remembered stopping his brother from taking his husband apart and then -

And then he wanted to apologize, anxious that it all might’ve been ruined, that Madara was provoked, angry, hurt in pride.  But instead he found himself here, two strong arms around him that pulled him close, held him tight: Madara’s body against his, his head in his neck. Steady breaths in, steady breaths out - the warm air tingling on his skin. It left him with goosebumps and his heart was wild, excited, happily beating faster. Tobirama didn’t quite understand, but that mattered little to him now as he savored the closeness, inhaling Madara’s scent, feeling his long hair brush on his cheek. 

“You could’ve gone,” Madara said quietly and his voice never was rougher except when he was quiet like this, “You could’ve gone with him. It was your chance, Tobirama. To be free of me. But you didn’t.”

“No,” Tobirama answered, equally quiet, “I didn’t.”

Madara’s chakra had calmed down from the earlier anger, but its intensity hadn’t seized, as it now felt like it was burning Madara from the inside out. A sign of strong emotional intensity, Tobirama thought faintly. His husband pulled away, but only slightly, to look him in the face. This close Tobirama was able to see him better - beautiful, handsome. That he is married to me, of all people - a funny happening of life. 

“You mean so much to me and you don’t even know,” Madara’s voice was so full of emotion and Tobirama didn’t understand. 

So he said it. “I– I don’t understand.” A whisper. 

Instead of answering immediately Madara took Tobirama’s hand and pressed it on his chest, right over his heart. And even through the fabric Tobirama could feel it, the rhythmic, fast beat of his heart - thump, thump, thump. Way faster than it should for a shinobi like him, for a relaxed situation like this. 

“You do this to me,” Madara finally said and sounded wondrous, “And you don’t even know.” 

“I’m sorry.” Tobirama replied. Because was it a bad thing? Whenever he was the cause of something it usually was a bad thing. 

“No, don’t apologize.” Madara leaned forward and caught his lips in a soft kiss, “Never apologize. It means that you are precious to me. I never thought–” He took a sharp inhale and Tobirama felt the air on his skin, “I never thought that I could feel this way. About you. Or anyone, for that matter.”

Tobirama couldn’t help but think that he felt the same, that he knew exactly what Madara was talking about, still he asked. “What do you mean with… this feeling?”

There was a moment of silence in which Madara’s eyes moved over Tobirama’s face, as if to remember every feature of it. “I don’t think even the greatest poets could possibly describe. Then how could I?”

And Tobirama’s heart yearned, yearned, yearned at that confession because that's what it was. The soft whimper that escaped him wholly unintentionally, as this time he was the one that pressed the kiss on his husband’s lips.

There was an angel on the futon beneath him. The discord inside of him almost felt too much to bear: on one hand he almost didn't dare to touch, to not risk corrupting this beautiful thing with everything that he was. And on the other hand his body screamed to feel him, his skin, his lips, his hair. Conflict didn't plague him for long as he indulged, greedy man that he was; his hands on broad shoulders, trailing over soft fabric down to the chest. 

There was intent focus in eyes that didn't see very much - focus that was on him, his face. It was almost as if he could see fully. Or even beyond that, maybe he saw what laid underneath carefully formed masks of indifference and rationality. There was nothing rational about Madara, he was self aware - especially not when it came to this. He wanted, he yearned.

He could’ve never known what it would feel like, he mused as his hands opened the yukata, crawling underneath the cotton to feel warm, soft skin. What it would feel like to be this possessed of someone, as if all of them enveloped all of him - the desperate tearings at his heart that felt like it would rip it in two. The thoughts of how lovely Tobirama was.

“Is this alright?” Madara asked, carefully and silently. The memories of Tobirama’s face, terrified and pale from dread at the sheer thought of being intimate with him, still ghosted in his mind. 

He should be ashamed, Madara knew. To have treated him this way - or, to be precise, to have done so little to prevent others from treating him horrendously - and yet still be so hungry for everything Tobirama could give. But how could he feel ashamed, when Tobirama whispered ‘yes’ so breathily?

And so Madara drank in every little gasp and moan as he kissed his spouse's sensitive neck and throat, as he let his hands wander and caress, tugging on obviously sensitive nipples. He couldn’t get enough, but knew he had to maintain control - that he was able to do this was a privilege. Tobirama was letting him. He didn’t want to waste his chances by being too selfish, too greedy. 

“How far do you want to go?” He whispered into his young husband’s ear and let the tip of his nose trail his neckline, “I need to know, Tobirama.”

The hot, slightly exposed body underneath him wreathed - as he was lying half on top of him Madara could feel Tobirama’s stiff erection press into his hip. But he didn’t want to assume: Tobirama he’d give all the time in the world. 

“I- I want all of you,” Tobirama exhaled, “Just, please. I’ve never done this before–” 

He seemed embarrassed by this as he stopped himself mid sentence. Madara never thought about it before, but it somehow made sense that Tobirama was untouched. Not many could appreciate this ethereal kind of beauty, he thought, but most of mankind was rotten and foul anyways. He’d never want them to perceive Tobirama’s beauty, realize his tremendous worth; Madara would have competition then, rotten and foul as he was himself and there surely were better men out there than him. A giddy, possessive feeling rose in him that Tobirama was his and his alone. 

“We’ll do this as slowly as we need to, my heart,” he promised, the little endearment slipping out of him like it was nothing, “Just tell me if you don’t like something I do.”

Madara has had sex. When he was younger and more adventurous, not burdened by the responsibilities of a clan head - it never meant anything, little flings he had on missions with people he definitely didn’t know well enough. Strangers even. It satisfied his flesh, never his mind. But this…

…this.

He watched eagerly how Tobirama’s face flushed as he closed his hand around his hard cock. Just a few practiced movements and the soft, endearing pink had spread all throughout his pale face - he moaned, his eyes squeezing shut momentarily.  

“Open your eyes for me, beautiful,” He murmured, starting to feel feverish, driven, “I want to see your eyes.”

Tobirama obeyed, his eyelids opening as far as he probably could while Madara was stroking him; half lidded, glassy rubies were staring at him and it squeezed Madara’s insides. Oh, Amaterasu. You've blessed him and therefore you've blessed me. It was impossible to describe this kind of want and so he gave into the urge, kissing Tobirama hungrily, sloppily, tongue meeting tongue. His actions were rewarded with soft moans that got lost in his mouth.  

Madara wanted to ravish him and so he did, continuing the thorough caress and pleasuring of his husband until he was already working two oiled fingers into him - Tobirama was arching under him, milky skin stretching over his delicate yet strong body. Madara couldn’t help but worship it, pressing kisses on his chest and stomach like it was compulsion. By the third finger Tobirama was breathless, desperate. 

“Please,” He said, his irises blown by pleasure, “please, Madara–”

“Yes.” It was the only thing his mind could conjure up, eloquence lost along the way.

When he finally pushed in, Tobirama’s warm body welcoming him - tight, hot, squeezing - there was no possible coherent thought in his brain. The whole experience out of his previously known world; like coming home and ascending to heaven at the same time. Madara’s heart was beating so fast it might have almost exploded in his chest - there was no chance of hiding his own noises anymore. When he moved, all of it was amplified by a dozen.

Tobirama was a drug, potent and addictive - Madara didn’t care that he was becoming an addict. His husband was a moaning mess beneath him, his lovely, dark voice getting raspy - small pearls of tears in the corner of his eyes, red flush possessing his cheeks and nose. Madara was losing all sense of what was right, of what he should say and what not. What did it matter now?

“Oh, my heart,” He breathed, grabbing Tobirama’s thighs by the back and moving closer, to comfortably reach his husband’s neck to pepper it with kisses, “You are so beautiful, so strong.”

He wouldn’t last long, he knew, as he did powerful, almost desperate pushes into the hot body beneath him - the skin on Tobirama’s thighs felt soft even beneath his calloused fingers. 

“I wanted you the moment I saw you,” He confessed, “But you know that, don’t you?”

Tobirama whimpered helplessly at that. “Madara–”

“You knew all along because you are so smart, so perceptive. My heart–” He gasped, “You should’ve left, after all that I did to you. I don’t deserve you, but you stayed. You stayed, you stayed.”

“Madara, I’m–” Tobirama only said and as Madara put one of his hands on his husband’s erection again he came, long white strands spreading over his stomach and chest. Tobirama’s orgasm caused him to become rigid for a moment, squeezing tight around Madara - and Madara never stood a chance. With a low moan he came himself, his view spinning for a moment by the violent orgasm, spilling inside his lovely husband. 

Breathlessly he paused, pressing soft kisses on Tobirama’s legs that he was still holding, his husband equally out of breath squirming on the soft fabric beneath him. Finally he overcame his sense of comfort and greediness and pulled out, earning him a sigh. Madara laid down next to Tobirama, not able to repress the urge to press his nose into the other’s neck. 

“Do you want a bath?” He asked softly, drinking in the warmth of the other body. 

“Hm,” Tobirama uttered, “No. I don’t think I want to move. Could you clean me, a little?”

“Of course.” Madara responded, kissing his husband’s cheek, before leaving to get a washcloth.

There was little he could deny him anyway, he mused.

My heart.

My heart. 

My heart.

It echoed in Tobirama’s mind as his body draped snuggly over Madara’s, his head on his husband’s broad chest - he could hear the pumping of blood, the steady beating of his heart. It tuned in with the words that bounced around his brain. Tobirama felt tired and vulnerable, but at the same time happy and content as a large, practiced hand drove carefully through his hair, again and again, playing gently with the strands. 

He hurt a little. With penetrative sex it was to be expected. But it still had been one of the most amazing experiences of his life. Madara being close to him, the hundreds of kisses on his body, the closeness, the intimacy. And finally the indescribable feeling of actual sex - Tobirama hadn’t even known that there was this special region of pleasure inside of him, but now that he has had experienced it he understood why people had sex at all. On one hand he thought it was silly that he had clung to his virginity for so long, but on the other he felt giddy to have given it to Madara. His husband. 

Where has resentment gone? Tobirama remembered so clearly the times in which Madara’s presence, his chakra, had caused him strain and discomfort - fear, anxiety, all the like. And now he couldn’t get close enough, snuggling into the warmth of strong, protective arms. 

Perhaps it was because of these arms, figuratively. He had gotten closer to his husband the past months and while Tobirama, at first, had only seen his negative qualities: cold, unapproachable, dominant and stubborn. Over time, as they got past those, he saw who Madara really was. Caring, protective, passionate and kind in his own way. Perhaps that had been the key to all: 

With Hashirama, Tobirama was one of many. With Madara, he was the only one. He still had trouble believing it all - but it was difficult to doubt when he was cherished in these arms. He sighed softly, looking up, giving into an old urge that he had almost given up on.

“Can I touch your hair?” He whispered softly.

After a short silence Madara chuckled, Tobirama feeling the rumble in his chest on his cheek.

“Of course you can.”

The strands felt so soft in between his fingers, softer than he could’ve ever imagined. 

A few days passed idly in bliss - Tobirama had almost forgotten about the assassin, about Hashirama and everything that weighed his mind before, when he happened to notice something. He hadn’t seen Hikaku in a while.

He brought it up one afternoon and felt Madara’s chakra sour at the mention. Now, Tobirama wasn’t stupid - Madara was a possessive man and possessiveness often held hands with jealousy. But how could his husband after everything be jealous of his own right hand man? Despite expecting to be deflected, Madara actually answered his inquiry. 

“He left a couple of days ago,” He said, “Hikaku managed to identify the assassin. He was a high ranking member of a band of dōjutsu hunters that have been broaching our territory for a while now. Hikaku’s on his way with a couple of clan members to investigate this group further.”

Tobirama hummed at that. It made sense: Hikaku was the main investigator of the assassin’s case, as Madara himself was too occupied with clan business to get deeper involved himself. He still found it odd that Hikaku would go so far as to look into the barest hints, travel outside clan walls.

“I see,” Tobirama said eventually, “But couldn’t it be danger–”

“I’ve settled things with Hashirama,” Madara interrupted him rather sharply, “I’m grateful that you wrote to him as well and soothed his agitated spirit. That way I was able to inquire about some things.”

A bit irritated that he was cut off in the middle of his sentence, Tobirama frowned. “Inquire about what?”

Madara’s hand sneaked around his waist as he snuggled closer. He had gotten a lot more touchy ever since Tobirama allowed it - ever since they had grown closer. Now Madara’s behavior seemed akin to that of newly married husband’s which Tobirama had observed back at the Senju compound. Which was a little silly to him: even though Madara gave him a confession of some kind, he doubted it was something as complex as love.

“Your research, of course.” He said simply, resting his chin on Tobirama’s shoulder, “I haven’t forgotten when you told me that you wanted to cure your sight. You left it all behind when you moved to our compound, but Hashirama has saved it for you.”

Tobirama felt a giddy light spread in his chest. He didn’t know why he expected his things to have been thrown away after he left the compound, but hearing the reassurance that Hashirama has kept his studies was facilitating news. “He has?” 

Madara hummed. “I’ve got them here, they came this morning. Do you want to look over them with me? I must confess that I’m rather curious about it.”

Tobirama breathed in deeply in a barely concealed excitement, leaning further into the warm chest behind him - no one ever has been this interested in him or his research. “Of course.” He said, “I’d be glad to.”

They were still sitting behind Madara’s desk going through the research after it had already gotten dark. Only a pale candle light was illuminating the office still. Madara was astonished, reading through the dozens of papers in neat handwriting. This was more than simple research by a curious shinobi. 

“This is genius, Tobirama.” He stated after one particular paragraph about chakra storage, lifting his head to look at his spouse, “You are genius!”

A violent blush crept into Tobirama’s pale cheeks and he ducked his head. “Madara…” He began, seemingly already trying to downplay his abilities, as he had done every time Madara had paid him an earnest compliment that evening. 

“No, it is true.” He insisted before Tobirama could say anything, “As far as I can see you only have little research and an experimentation period left before you can implement this jutsu. That would be incredible, revolutionary - I’ve never heard of anyone curing their sight this way. I don’t even think that you need me for it, but I’d be glad to help you nonetheless, for whatever you need me.”

“Madara, you are an accomplished shinobi yourself-” 

“That may be, but my abilities have never covered research and development. Your skills…” He was looking for words, overwhelmed by the obvious intelligence his spouse had proven to have, “They would not only be of great help to you. To imagine what help it could be to the clan…”

Tobirama smiled softly at that and, for the first time, didn’t try to further discredit himself. “I’ll gladly be of help.”

The sight of the smile let Madara’s heart swell so much he almost couldn’t bear it, the overflow of an emotion unknown to him flooding his body. Instead of trying for words he pulled Tobirama closer into a soft, long kiss. 

"My genius angel," He whispers against lovely lips, "My darling heart."

They didn't work much further that evening. 

“Let’s spar.”

Tobirama looked up from the papers of research he had spread out on the kitchen floor. Despite everything he still felt most comfortable in the kitchen - it had developed to be a safe space of sorts. Now Izuna stood in front of him, arms crossed stubbornly.

“Spar? Why would we?” He asked, trying to detect any ulterior motives, but not finding any.

“You’re clearly a talented shinobi. I want to know how you’d measure against me.”

Tobirama frowned, not quite willing to indulge his brother-in-law. “No, I’m busy.” He tried.

Izuna’s nose wrinkled. “Surely not that busy. Come on, just one spar! You can work afterwards.”

Izuna shared a lot of characteristics with Kawarama, Tobirama thought faintly - he’d been equally stubborn, perhaps not spoiled but used to getting things the way he wanted simply by demanding it to be so. Tobirama sighed inwardly, knowing that he won’t get to work in peace anymore should he deny Izuna now. 

“Fine, one round.” He gave in.

Soon after they found themselves on a dirt covered clearing on the outskirts of the compound, clearly made for training purposes - they stood apart, sizing each other up. Izuna looked positively giddy from excitement. 

“Ground rules: We won’t seriously hurt each other, but won’t hold back either. Jutsus are allowed. The round ends when another yields.” Izuna said confidently. 

“I agree to those terms.” Tobirama confirmed, faintly wondering if this was a good idea.

He’d fought Izuna before, but back then it wasn’t a simple spar: it was a matter of life or death. He’d almost taken Izuna’s life once and he wondered if Izuna would recognize his fighting style. Tobirama could only hope that he wouldn’t or his own life would be forfeit, he was sure. Perhaps after all this time without any training he’d gotten rusty and would lose this spar within minutes - it would save him a lot of concern and worry. He took a deep breath– 

– and then Izuna was already charging at him. 

Uchiha Izuna fought very intuitively. He was one of those shinobi born with an incredible talent that had the potential to grow superhuman if he’d have any sense of strategy. But it was very clear to anyone who fought him that there was no conscious strategy in what he did, how he moved, what attack he used - his brain wasn’t doing anything in the moments of the fight. His limbs moved on his own. It was fascinating, redoubtable and likely very scary to some people, as there was little that could be done to disrupt his fighting. Izuna had no strategy to disrupt: so what was there to disrupt? 

Tobirama knew this and even he, a strategist in battle, had problems with it the first time they’d met in battle. Now, he countered Izuna’s intuitively with his own. 

His taijutsu was indeed rusty, he noticed early on. Izuna landed some good punches that did hurt a lot, but as soon as he found a rhythm he gained back confidence. Soon, both found that in levels of taijutsu, they won’t beat each other - so they broke apart for a short moment.

“Damn, not bad!” Izuna expressed and his joy in fighting Tobirama seemed to have grown even more. He didn’t hesitate for long, as he prepared a fire jutsu.

All in all, the fight was rather enjoyable. Neither of them took it too seriously and Tobirama enjoyed feeling like a proper shinobi again, after months of hiding. Izuna got him sweating, which was to be expected given that it had been a close call in their last, serious fight as well – but he didn’t seem to recognize Tobirama as his former assailant. After a while of exchanging jutsus, engaging in hand to hand combat, Tobirama saw opportunity in Izuna’s lack of strategy. 

A cleverly placed water jutsu, a kunai thrown by a shadow clone immediately after he dodged it and then Tobirama was right behind him, kicking his feet away - Izuna, surprised by the maneuver, had no chance. He fell flat on his back and Tobirama was on him, kunai in one hand, the other on Izuna’s chest, pressing him down as he was breathing heavily. 

“Do you yield?” He asked simply. 

Izuna’s eyes were wide in surprise, but at the same time amazement slowly unfolded on his features. “Yeah.” He breathed.

Tobirama got up, holding out a hand for Izuna to pull himself up. With a few pats he dusted himself off.

“I had no idea, Tobirama. You’re incredible!” Izuna stated boldly and Tobirama felt himself flush from the straightforward compliment.

“I trained a lot on the Senju compound.” He muttered, suddenly feeling a little shy. Should he have held back? Did he do too much?

“Bah, don’t sell yourself short,” Izuna patted his back rather harshly, but friendly, “You’d be a beast on the field.”

Beast. Little did Izuna know he already was. A monster haunting the shadows, responsible for almost taking his life. A stone settled in Tobirama’s stomach as he was reminded once again.

“You gotta teach me some of your seal jutsus sometime, they’re amazing! I’ll continue training for a little, see you later at dinner, right?” Izuna asked, seemingly not noticing Tobirama’s glumness. 

“Yes,” Tobirama answered distractedly and as Izuna vanished he made his way towards the main house. As he walked through the front door, he was ambushed by Madara, the other pressing him against the wall. 

“When did you plan to tell me that you are this good of a fighter?” He murmured, as he immediately began kissing Tobirama’s neck.

Oh, so Madara had watched them. Has it all been a set up? Was Izuna in on this? Tobirama dismissed the thought soon enough, which didn’t stop the anxiety from rising up in his throat. Wouldn’t it be a bad thing if Madara knew of his skills in battle?

“I– I didn’t think it was all that important,” He said weakly as his hands found Madara’s mid, clinging, as he felt the hot, wet mouth trailing his sensitive skin. 

“Not that important? You’ve displayed skills that I’ve rarely seen in any shinobi. You’ve bested Izuna–” He pulled back, looking at Tobirama, his eyes roaming, “It’s the most attractive thing I’ve seen in a long time.”

The knot of anxiety in Tobirama’s throat disappeared as he realized that the huskness in Madara’s voice wasn’t disapproval: it was arousal. He felt it clearly now, with it so evidently pressed against his hips. 

“I hope you don’t have anything planned this afternoon.” Madara murmured as he simply picked Tobirama up as if he weighed nothing. 

A surprised yelp escaped Tobirama as instead of fear now excitement spread in his stomach.

As he let himself be carried towards the bedroom, giddiness in his chest he realized what this odd feeling was that he was experiencing as of late: happiness.

Chapter Text

XIV.

Two weeks passed. Hikaku hasn’t returned. He was past the day he was supposed to be back by almost a week. It unnerved Tobirama in a way he couldn’t describe - perhaps it was because he worried for a friend or because there was something crawling around under his skin about the whole situation that just felt wrong . But no matter how many times he told himself that Hikaku was a skilled shinobi leading a group of Uchiha in support the uneasiness wouldn’t go away. 

Madara didn’t seem too worried - maybe he trusted in his advisors skills more than Tobirama did. But something about his carefreeness when people from his clan were essentially missing irritated Tobirama. And despite how abrasively he had reacted in the past whenever Tobirama had spoken to him about Hikaku, he decided to bring it up again. 

The day seemed bright and joyful in contrast to his burdened mind. 

“Madara.” He said quietly, as he stood in the entryway of his office, entering carefully.

Madara, attention sunken in papers, only hummed in acknowledgement.

“Hikaku-san hasn’t been back. It’s almost a week. He’s missing.” Tobirama said determinedly.

This got Madara’s attention as he looked up, chakra already laced with irritation.
“He is a fine shinobi, as are the men accompanying him. If he has run into trouble he will resolve it, I am sure.” His tone was impatient. 

“But a week?!” Tobirama exclaimed, “I’d never doubt Hikaku-san, but a week is a long time! We could at least send a scouting team!” 

When Senju shinobi didn’t return from missions, a rescue team would be sent out on the fourth day, to inquire about their whereabouts. In about 41% of the cases one or more of their team had been killed - Tobirama evaluated the numbers himself. The risk of even more party members being dead rose by each passing day. If Senju Shadows went missing, no one would search for them: either they came back or they never did. The more important it was to Tobirama to care for those where they'd actually be allowed to look for. 

Irritation in Madara’s chakra suddenly and drastically turned into anger.
“You’d never doubt him?” He hissed quietly, “How come you are so invested in my advisor?”

Tobirama frowned and stepped closer. He wasn’t one to misinterpret, nor was he daft. It was suddenly very clear what this was about and why Madara had been so reluctant to act in the matters of Hikaku’s disappearance, despite the man being his trusted friend and longtime advisor. 

“Are you jealous?” He asked bluntly as he finally stood in front of Madara’s desk, “Is this what this is all about?”

Madara’s gaze turned away as he seemingly felt caught. “You seem very close to Hikaku,” He finally uttered and even though it was said stubbornly, he had the decency to sound ashamed. 

“We are friends. Hikaku has never been inappropriate with me,” Tobirama felt hurt shoot through his chest - had Madara really thought that he was possibly emotionally invested in another?

“After all that I’ve told you, after I gave you my innocence–” Tobirama breathed in, hurt now turning into anger, “And you still doubt me?!”

Madara’s head lowered - shame, finally, bleeding through the anger in his chakra.
“I just–” He looked for words, “I saw you that day, when elder Kase was being cremated. You were with Hikaku, by the river.”

Tobirama remembered it clearly: Hikaku had called him beautiful that day and it had been the first time he had felt appreciated, wanted. He must've been so distracted that he hadn’t noticed Madara in his vicinity - now, as it turned out, he had seen everything. And of course someone viewing the situation from the outside could’ve easily misinterpreted the closeness Hikaku and him had shared. Tobirama’s frown deepened. The day had been a precious memory to him, now it was left with a bitter aftertaste. 

“He was only reassuring me. Nothing more. Previously he had offered to accompany me to the funeral, as I knew virtually nothing of your traditions,” Tobirama said after a long silence in which neither of them had spoken, “I was afraid of being shunned at the ceremony. That, among other things, my eyes would be appalling and repulsive to the Uchiha attending it.” 

Madara looked up, surprised. Tobirama continued. “I never knew what Uchiha thought of my eyes. You never told me.” He couldn’t help but be accusing, “Hikaku-san explained to me what position Amaterasu holds in your culture and what your beliefs are. Up until then I thought I was a hideous offense to any Uchiha that would gaze upon me.”

“That is not true at all–” Madara spoke up, but Tobirama shut him down.

“And how was I supposed to know? That I wasn’t a monster in your eyes? You were so cold and dismissive towards me that I didn’t even dare to ask, quite apart from the fact that you never bothered to teach me about my new clan's way of life.” He wasn’t yelling, but his tone was loud and angry. 

“I–” Madara seemed to look for words, not quite finding them and for once in all the time that Tobirama knew him he seemed unsure, knocked off of the position of confidence and superiority. But Tobirama didn’t think that now was the time to hold back: since they finally were intimate, in every way like a married couple, coupled with the fact that he now knew exactly how Uchiha Madara functioned he thought it to be appropriate to finally say what he always wanted to say. 

“So I dare say that jealousy is quite unbecoming of you, since Hikaku-san was the only one keeping me sane on this compound. Being the only trusted friend I had. Things have changed for the better as you know, but the first months here  were horrific and terrifying for me, Madara.” He was disappointed, that was it. That Madara still suspected him to be with other men, despite everything that has happened.

“You’re right, Tobirama.” Madara admitted finally, quietly as he stood up to round the desk, “It is unbecoming of me. I shouldn’t have insulted you this way, my heart. I’m sorry.”

He took Tobirama’s hand, which the other let happen, but his frown didn’t lighten. “I’m still cross with you, one apology won’t make it right.” 

“Then what will? Tell me, please, how to fix my mistakes.” Madara said indulgently, pressing a kiss on the back of his hand. 

“First of all you will send a scouting troop to look for Hikaku-san and the others immediately.” Tobirama answered sternly.

“Of course. I will do so as soon as I can.”

Tobirama huffed. “And then you’ll help me with my project. I feel like I’m almost done.”

“Of course, my heart.” 

He let the kiss happen.

There was something about admitting errors. About voicing faults of the self - about being wrong and standing up for it. It always was an arrogant hurt to a proud ego. Madara was a proud man and he was aware of it: he always thought he was above a certain kind of entitlement that prevented many of a similar character from admitting their mistakes. Insightful enough to know when to admit defeat, to see that previous actions were wrong. And in a way he was, as he willingly backed down when Tobirama confronted him without any qualms. 

Jealousy had gotten the better of him. It was shameful, he thought now: to imply that not only his good friend, but Tobirama had gone behind his back. Tobirama was right to scold him and he certainly felt thoroughly scolded afterward. 

Somehow he had missed it. With all his self-assuredness of being wise and foresighted, he had missed the biggest matter at hand. That he had left Tobirama in the dark all this time, that he had scuffled with everything that had happened around his husband - Izuna, his own clan, Madara himself - but entirely missing Tobirama himself. Of course he didn’t know about Amatersau. And naturally he would come to the conclusion that Madara avoiding him meant that somehow he was the problem.

For being such a blinding star in his life, Madara had averted his eyes far too often. Willingly? Accidentally? Carelessly? 

Madara had never told him how beautiful he thought he was, not really, even though he had been captured ever since he saw him.

He felt burned. By his own fire and by the one Tobirama had spit at him. Groveling was just as unbecoming to him as jealousy, but he couldn’t help but to bow to Tobirama’s whims. Madara’s own will seemed irrelevant to him sometimes, when Tobirama frowned and raised his voice, tone sharp and commanding. Had he known this side of his spouse, there would’ve never been any doubt: Tobirama was a leader in his own right. 

But now to licking his own wounds. Madara couldn’t help but self-pity. Leaving Hikaku missing because of misplaced feelings, misinterpreted gestures he never bothered to clarify with any party involved? It wasn’t like him at all. And Hikaku, his friend and advisor, had suffered under it - now the strange spell had broken, he felt ashamed. 

Where was his rationality? It left somewhere around the time when Tobirama had become more than a pretty, fascinating face. Madara never had the trouble of reflecting about what he felt for someone. It had all been pretty clear all his life: he loved his family, his clan, Izuna. Felt detached and indifferent to anyone else. Hated, sometimes. 

And now? Now he battled with himself, didn’t act how he had gotten used to for years and years. Sometimes he feared he was being influenced by a jutsu, but those thoughts he quickly rationalized. This was his own, but who was he now? Not the man that had gone into Senju territory, coming back with a husband he barely could stand to look at. 

Fading lines, fading barriers. 

Clarity, Madara thought, was difficult to come by in recent times. It felt a little like losing his mind: the feelings he felt for Tobirama, intense and consuming, ruled over him and he didn't even know how to describe them. Where do you even begin? 

After he sent out the scouting team he wandered towards the library, letting his fingers slide over the book's backs. He pulled the Uchiha's philosophy collection from its place, mindlessly turning the pages when he came to a halt at the Curse of Hatred. He read the lines, without feeling much about it. 

His father had overcome the Curse, freeing himself from the grip, but Uchiha Tajima had always been a character of remarkable strength and emotional durability. Madara's grandfather had reportedly gone insane from it, finding his crazed end in a katana on a battlefield somewhere in the south after his wife had been killed only days prior. 

As a younger man Madara had scoffed at a death like this - painting his grandfather as a weak man ruled by emotions. He didn't understand then. But now that he let his fingers trail the words, an understanding began forming clearly in his head as he thought about what would happen if it was him and Tobirama. To imagine Tobirama dying in front of him, life escaping from his lovely eyes… 

Going insane didn't seem like a faraway conclusion to such an event. And what was insanity anyway but an abstract construct? 

Shaking his daze he shut the book and he hurried away from the library. He'd promised Tobirama to help him with his project after all.

The feeling of sweat collecting on his forehead, running down his brows and temple was unnerving and annoying, but there were more urgent things at hand for him to care all too much. Tobirama was in the final stages of his project: this was it. Either it was going to work or it wouldn’t.

The theory was clear and he had taken every precaution. Only moments were parting him from the truth. Madara was sitting next to him, his gaze fixated worriedly on his form - he could feel it in the chakra, how concerned he was. But he didn’t do anything to distract him. Tobirama was kneeling on the floor for what felt like an eternity already, carefully collecting his chakra and binding it to his facial seals. He was exhausted: performing new, complicated jutsus was one thing, but applying them to something so intricate and complex like eyes, with all the nerve endings and receptors was even more of a challenge.

“If someone can do it, then it is you.” Madara had said confidently before Tobirama had begun this final stretch of his project.

He wished he had this kind of confidence sometimes. 

He was so close, he could literally feel how his eyes were changing under the constant influence of his chakra, but the exhaustion was overbearing. Breathing was hard and his chakra cycle was becoming unstable. Not to mention the excruciating pain.

“Madara.” He uttered under strain.

His husband was answering immediately. “Yes?”

“I need some of your chakra. I’m so close, but–” He took a ragged breath, “But I don’t know if I’ll manage this last bit.”

“Of course, give me your hand.” Madara responded.

With difficulty Tobirama opened his clammy, sweaty hand to reach for Madara who took it firmly, not wavering for a little bit. Tobirama felt like he was falling, his strength leaving him until…

…until Madara’s chakra flooded him. Newfound energy was shooting down his system, flushing every part of his body. Fiery, intense, overwhelming. It was one thing to just feel it, another entirely to have it be a part of you. He was almost choking on it. But he had to act quickly, to not get distracted by the overpowering new sensations. He took every strength, every bit of chakra he had and flooded his eyes. 

It was a pain unlike any other. Nothing compared: not cuts, not breaks, not any other jutsus. Tobirama was fairly sure he was screaming, squeezing Madara’s hand for the life of him and he would’ve certainly apologized for it if he wasn’t so overwhelmed by the pain in his eyes. And it seemed to go on forever and ever, like seconds were minutes, minutes were hours, hours were days. And Kami, when would it end? When was it finally enough?

Until it simply stopped.

Tobirama collapsed to the floor, depleted of strength and still shaking from the remnants of pain. The world was dark as he had his eyes still squeezed shut.

“Tobirama!” Madara was over him immediately, his hands shaking him with as much gentleness as he could muster up in his panic, “Are you alright? Answer me–”

“I’m alright.” He rasped, his shaky hands finding his closed eyes. 

He was afraid. Afraid that his efforts were for naught, that the jutsus had done nothing. Or worse, made his eyesight deteriorate even further. What would he do then? His life’s dream would be shattered: he’d be sure that he would never, ever be able to see. This was his one shot. His last hope. 

Madara helped him up into a sitting position. “Has it worked? Come on, open your eyes.” He coaxed, his hands cupping Tobirama’s cheeks. 

It was now or never, wasn’t it? He would have to open his eyes eventually, accept reality. He halfway expected to have failed already, when he slowly pried his eyes open.

Madara was looking at him and he was so clear and sharp like nothing was before. Not even that first time they had lain close and Tobirama had watched him sleep. Dark, wild locks of hair framing his pale, handsome face. Deep pools of black eyes that now were roaming his face, a slight crease in his forehead from worry. He was beautiful. And the first thing Tobirama had ever properly seen in his life. It was an experience he couldn’t describe, as if he’d gained a whole new dimension: his life had been dull all this time and now clarity had come and lifted the fog from his eyes.

It was so overwhelming, so unexpected he felt tears welling up in his eyes.

“Tobirama?” There was clear concern in Madara’s voice as he got a little more hectic.

“Madara,” He gasped, “Madara, I can see.”

He couldn’t quite comprehend, but here it was. 

Madara had believed in Tobirama: he’d seen the notes on the project, heard him talk about it. There was no doubt that the jutsu in theory had been possible - the spark of a brilliant mind. Surely complicated and beyond any reasonable level of advanced chakra control, but there was no reason why it shouldn’t work. As said, in theory.

In reality there were so many things that could go wrong. Chakra was a tricky, sometimes very unpredictable thing that even a powerful sensor and shinobi like Tobirama could miscalculate. At times it just did things without explanation: and Tobirama’s constitution was another factor. Madara had seen him fight and it was the most fascinating, enticing thing he’d seen in a long time. But he had gathered from his husband’s notes that the jutsu would cost him incredible amounts of chakra, perhaps even more than he possibly could give.

And it did occur that Madara had to support him with some chakra of his own. He’d been so afraid at that moment, watching Tobirama shake and tremble. It almost seemed like the jutsu was ripping him apart - Tobirama had almost broken Madara’s hand towards the end with how hard he was gripping it. 

So, Madara did believe in Tobirama. But there had been doubts nonetheless that had nothing to do with Tobirama himself. 

And now he saw his husband wandering through the main house’s hallway, turning and twisting his head, reveling and awed by a newly gained sight. 

When they reached the gardens he saw Tobirama's eyes widen in amazement, a shaky hand covering his mouth as his seeing gaze wandered over the fresh greenery, the blooming flowers. Overwhelmed, Tobirama let himself sink down on the deck. Feeling indulgent, Madara sat next to him. It gave him an indescribable kind of joy to see this kind of happiness on Tobirama's face. 

"I would've never thought…" Tobirama began, but trailed off. It was apparent that no words could describe what he was feeling at that moment. His eyes didn't seem to rest as they roamed rapidly. Suddenly the small blackbird that had once been a family pet jumped on the deck, not far from his husband, curiously cocking its head. 

"Oh, Kami." Tobirama whispered, his voice thick with emotions as his gaze set on the bird. 

Madara gave in to the urge and took Tobirama's hand, letting his thumb caress the fingers. He almost didn't dare to ask, to be this entitled, but he had to. 

"Are you happy?" 

It seemed like he was referring to this situation. To the fact that Tobirama could now see - that his jutsu worked after so many years of hard work and research. But both couldn't possibly mishear the underlying meaning of that sentence. Are you happy? Here, with me? Are you happy to be with me? 

Tobirama turned his head, now focusing on Madara. There still was this childlike amazement on his face, but now a form of contentment seemed to blend into it. His answer, for some reason, delighted Madara in a way he could have never imagined. 

"You know… I am."

"How come you never told me?" 

It was evening, a light, warm breeze sweeping through the open windows, making the small flames of candles flicker. 

"Hm?" 

"Of Amaterasu. That I'm not… hideous. Offensive to look at."

They were lying close. Now, he could see Madara's contemplative gaze, the soft frown on his face. It was endearing, he thought. 

"I'm not quite sure," a short silence ensued in which he was thinking intensely, "I think that with all that was going on I lost sight of what was really important. I was so caught up with… with you here. I was so torn between wanting to hate you and being so drawn to you." 

His hand in his hair, gentle in a way his past self would've never imagined an Uchiha to be. "I never considered how you felt. How scary it must've been for you. I am sorry, Tobirama."

He stayed quiet for a while, the silence between them not uncomfortable. "Then I'm not hideous to you?" 

"No." It was a definitive, "You are the most beautiful man I've ever seen. I thought so the very first moment I saw you, though no one would've been able to get me to say it then. I'm not ashamed to say it now. Your eyes are like rubies. A precious jewel, fitting for you."

Tobirama felt so bashful hearing those words, his cheeks burning hotly, that he stopped them by eagerly pressing his mouth on Madara's. 

He sat on Madara’s lap that night, his thick cock filling him to the brim. The sensation was incredible.

Tobirama would’ve never guessed that it could be like this - it was surrender, in a way, and he liked it, liked it. Being taken by Madara, claimed in a way. That he belonged to him fully and that Madara belonged to him. Never before had he felt this intense feeling of security. And the pleasure whenever Madara’s erection rubbed at this special place inside of him was unimaginable. 

They were sweaty but it didn’t matter, Madara kissed his neck with vigor and passion, his wet tongue making Tobirama squirm even more than his cock already did. Sweet things whispered into his ear, hot skin on skin, eyes filled with both of their lust - messy kisses, fingers in hair. Madara’s hands were on his hips, gripping possessively - he never needed to be jealous though. How could Tobirama ever want anyone else?

He was able to see clearly now and everything was just so much more. He was able to see the fire in Madara’s eyes and the twinkle of ardor and fervor and it drove him crazy, silently. Perhaps not so silently as he moaned without control, digging his fingers into Madara’s wide back. If this was how it could be forever, he’d do anything to keep it. 

And throughout it all, a steady whisper–

My heart, my heart, my heart.

Dear Hashirama, 

He wrote the next day. Things had calmed down after Hashirama had so intensely shown up at the Uchiha compound front gates. Tobirama never assumed things would simply sort themselves out after the brief conversation they had shared then and so he had written immediately after. After a dozen letters of reassurance, Hashirama had finally relented. 

Tobirama couldn’t blame him. He wouldn’t have known how he would have reacted in Hashirama’s place - Hashirama was a sweet, kind soul and he’d been blind with anger. Tobirama was harsher than that. 

Now their conversations were pleasant, with Hashirama announcing that he’d one day come to visit with Mito, if Tobirama felt ready. Apparently Mito had fallen pregnant, which filled Tobirama with an odd warmth. He wanted to be an uncle badly, as he knew that he himself would never have his own children to care for. 

Do you remember when I told you, years back, that I had an idea how to heal my sight?

It was so relieving to write now, with sight. Everything was clearly in front of him, he didn’t need to hold it close anymore, nor squint in any manner. He was still getting used to it, some things needed time to adjust, but he had always been a quick learner. 

Would you believe me if I told you that it worked? I am writing to you now and I’m seeing the words clearly…

“You healed your sight? Just like that?!”

Now that he saw, Izuna wasn't all that scary anymore. Before Izuna was more akin to an idea of a man than an actual person, nothing more than a scheme with explosive chakra and frightening temperament. The young man sitting in front of him now was barely out of boyhood, with youth still defining his features and the confidence of newly gained masculinity in his body language. Cockily he was leaning back, tea lazily swinging in one of his hands. 

“Not that simply as you make it out to be.” Tobirama answered, a little annoyed. With Izuna, everything was just simple, even if it wasn’t. “It was a complicated jutsu that cost me a lot of strength. I had to rest all day yesterday.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that you performed miracle work to me. You’re like… what, twenty-four?” He sipped the tea.

“Twenty-three.” Tobirama replied a little briskly. In the corner of his eyes Madara looked up from his meal, “How old are you anyway?”

Izuna wrinkled his nose. “Psh, no need to get defensive, I’m trying to compliment you here.”

“Well, thank you.” Tobirama said, focussing his attention back to his steamed fish. 

His appetite had come back when things turned upward a few months back and now that sight wasn’t an issue anymore the food somehow tasted even better, as it looked a lot more appealing. Sight still was such a strange, new thing to him. Again and again he would stumble over new things he hadn’t seen before and every time it managed to amaze him. It didn’t even need to be anything special: he almost cried watching a candle flicker in the dark, definitely cried watching his first sunset. 

He still couldn’t quite believe it was true at times, scared that if he opened his eyes on a new morning that it was all just a beautiful dream, concocted by his hopeful, desperate mind. But every morning since then he woke up and saw - often Madara and it made him feel indescribable things. 

“Tobirama, you didn’t tell me you had your birthday.” Madara suddenly said, after staying silent for most of his and Izuna’s conversation. 

A little caught, Tobirama felt his face flush. “Oh, it was about two months ago. It–” He sought for words, “It was at a time where we weren’t as… understanding as we are now.”

“Hm.” Madara grunted, his intense gaze resting on Tobirama, “No matter. I will get you a present, as I should.”

“But you didn’t celebrate yours either.” Tobirama tried. The thought of getting gifts, being the center of attention still made him uncomfortable. Why should birth be rewarded? He had noticed in the deep winter that clan members had celebrated Madara’s twenty-ninth birthday, though Madara never mentioned it even in the slightest

“I will get you a present.” Madara repeated stubbornly and it sounded final. 

Tobirama accepted his fate, though his heart couldn’t help but tumble.

Borderlands. 

These regions were a rough area to be in, Uchiha Akihiko knew. He’d been with the scouting troops for almost ten years now, leader of his team for over four years of them. Border’s would get blurry here, as no one knew exactly at times where one territory ended and the other began. Back when they were still at war with the Senju it was practically a death sentence to set foot into the borderlands. Battles frequently were triggered that way, often with a bloody, terrible outcome - no one wanted to be the cause of that. 

He was never part of the main battles, but it didn’t make his task within the clan any easier. Intelligence often were the first to get murdered: they traveled light with few people, often far away from the compound. Akihiko was lucky that he survived this long. 

Scouting was his calling, but what he really, truly hated about it was retrieving bodies. Battlefields promised them more than enough, but when his Lord tasked him to look for Uchiha Hikaku, informing him that he was already missing for a week, he had little hope. Missing people had the highest chance of being found alive within twenty-four hours of their disappearance. The percentage dropped with each progressing hour. Three days and they were most likely dead. 

He liked Uchiha Hikaku. Pleasant guy, even if he hadn’t talked to him that often. It would be quite a shame to find him dead, especially as he did good work for the clan, for their Lord. Uchiha Madara would be devastated to know him murdered. 

Rainfall was frequent in this month and the earth was muddy and wet. The rain soaked his clothes. His skin crawled at the thought of being so close to Senju lands, even if peace was made - he guessed it was an old habit that died hard. They were searching for over a day now, uncomfortable in the weather, but determined. 

“Kami– Of fuck.” One of his own exclaimed suddenly, “Akihiko! Over here!”

Akihiko turned, hurrying towards his team member that had climbed a small, slippery increase. With fast steps he was there, standing beside him, seeing what he was seeing. 

In a ditch, muddied and discarded like slaughterhouse waste, laid clan members. Uchiha. On top of them Uchiha Hikaku, in a terrible state full of dirt and blood, one eye still slightly open and, by the looks of it, on death’s doorstep. 

Akihiko scrambled into the ditch as fast as he could.

Chapter Text

XV.

The news reached Madara in the late morning.

It had all been so pleasant up until then. He had lazy morning sex with Tobirama, enjoyed the mild weather and some tea - work wasn’t too tedious either. Of course there were these lingering thoughts in the back of his head - what of Hikaku, what of the assassination attempt? - but it was all so easy to drown in the domestic bliss that it didn’t burden him all too much.

It was interrupted when Akihiko, the leader of one of his scouting teams, practically burst into his office, sweaty and exhausted. Telling him that they found Hikaku, barely alive. That all the other five party members were murdered. The perpetrator was still unknown, but according to Akihiko they found them near the border and it seemed like it had been the work of one individual rather than an ambush by multiple people.

Madara hurried towards the medical ward immediately after Akihiko’s short report, torn with guilt for neglecting his advisor for so long and him now bearing the painful consequences. Not to mention that five other clan members were dead. A loss that perhaps could've been prevented. 

“He looks bad right now,” The Uchiha medic nin told him, “But I’m confident that Hikaku-san will recover. He’s always been more tenacious than many others and his chakra reserves are unusually large. A week with intensive care and he should be good to go. We have placed him into a coma for now, simply out of caution.”

Madara didn’t say much to that, only acknowledging that there was hope. Hikaku really looked horrible when he finally got to sit beside his futon. Face beaten and swollen, large bandages covering his torso. According to Akihiko’s full report, which he read later, he must’ve lain in that godforsaken ditch with the corpses of his clan members for almost two days. 

Hikaku was a skilled shinobi and a strategist in his own right. There weren’t many that would beat him in battle, especially considering that he had a full party of Uchiha with him. Whoever had met him in battle had to be a terrifying, outstanding shinobi. Hikaku had been investigating Madara's assassination attempt: had only planned to stir up the gang of bandits which the assassin veiled with henge had came from. But whatever happened to him out there in the borderlands couldn’t have been caused by a bunch of crooks.

Concern stiffened Madara’s spine like a rod had punched straight through it. Hikaku and him had already suspected that this was way more than one botched attempt on his life made by a bunch of low-level criminals. But this promised to be on a whole other level. Whoever was targeting his life knew how to hide in the shadows, pull strings and, on top of it all, was a dangerous shinobi.

Madara was quite sure that Hikaku had met them. No one else would’ve been able to almost kill his advisor. 

He took a deep inhale, squeezing Hikaku’s hand. Tobirama wouldn’t take the news well.

Tobirama didn’t take the news well.

“What?!” 

His expression was a mixture between shock and concern. Sometimes it still worried Madara that Tobirama felt more for Hikaku than he admitted to and whenever these thoughts crossed his mind he chided himself. Tobirama had explicitly told him that it wasn’t this way and that he should trust him. And he did, truly.

Was it insecurity? It almost seemed impossible for this to be the case, considering who he was. Madara had nothing to be insecure about. But maybe it was the fact that Hikaku was so different from him, the fact that he was more compatible with Tobirama’s character than Madara. Or the fact that Hikaku hadn’t treated Tobirama so atrociously like he had. Was it guilt, then? Or the knowledge that he was undeserving? Sometimes Madara did feel like he was going crazy. Tobirama did that to people, Uchiha especially, he mused.  

“The scouting troop found him,” Madara said, “He is alive, but in critical condition.”

Tobirama seemed speechless for a minute, blinking several times before swallowing heavily.
“I’m going to visit him.” He said finally, “Don’t get the wrong idea, I’d be very cross with you if you did. After all, this is partially your doing.”

And with that he brushed past Madara in a hurry, his last words stabbing him like a kunai. But he was right, wasn’t he? Selfish, selfish man he was. 

Reigned by jealousy, possessiveness. Things were mended between them, but how would he ever be able to make it up to Tobirama? Madara had promised he would, quite a while ago even, after the incident with Izuna. But now that he finally should, with more than nice words and sweet gestures, he didn’t know how to. At a loss at what to do, he began walking out of the main house, not quite standing the confinement of walls.

He had promised to get Tobirama a birthday present after all, hadn’t he?

“Madara-sama didn’t mean anything by it, I’m sure, Tobirama-sama,” Hikaku said. 

He still looked terribly weak and his voice was thin, marked by exhaustion. Medical staff had pulled him from the coma a day ago, which Tobirama was glad of. It just simply wasn’t right to see close people so vulnerable and hurt. And even now, after he’d been so gravely injured, Hikaku trivialized Madara’s behavior. 

“You don’t know him as long as I do,” He continued, likely after seeing Tobirama’s doubtful look on his face, “He knows that there is little that could incapacitate me this seriously. It’s also not the first time that I was late on schedule - he’s simply had faith in me. Don’t be too cross with him.”

Tobirama regarded him silently. He could see him now, too and even if it wasn’t how he hoped they’d meet again after he gained sight - sickly, pale, with dark circles under his eyes - it still made him glad. Hikaku was only a little older than him, by the looks of it, his hair a dark, chocolate brown instead of the typical raven black of the Uchiha. Sharp, slim eyebrows over almond shaped eyes. It was interesting to pick out every detail of his face, like his pale mouth, small, pointy nose and cheeks that still had the fullness of someone in his mid-twenties that aged well. 

He was quite handsome, Tobirama thought. But he wasn’t Madara. 

“How are you feeling?” He asked, to distract from the previous topic. Even if Hikaku might be right - that Madara simply had a lot of faith in his advisor -  it still didn’t change that he felt quite hurt about it. Jealousy shouldn’t come at the cost of someone else’s life. 

“Quite well, given the circumstances,” Hikaku smiled weakly, “I think I won’t be here much longer. Though I’d quite appreciate it if I won’t have to go on a mission for a while.”

“Did you find anything then?” Tobirama questioned broadly. They hadn’t discussed the circumstances as to how Hikaku got into this position in the first place. 

Suddenly there was a flicker running over Hikaku’s face which his chakra reflected - very brief, very subtle, but Tobirama picked up on it anyways. Fear, concern, guilt, pain. But as soon as it happened it was gone. His gaze darted away from Tobirama. 

“No… I mean, yes–” He struggled visibly and somehow the struggle was also visible in his body, as he gritted his teeth for a moment in pain, “I think it’s best if I reported to Madara-sama.”

Tobirama was taken aback by the sudden reservedness. For a few moments he watched Hikaku, his body language was defensive and little tremors shook his body - he was gripping his own wrist until his knuckles were white and while he obviously tried to control his breathing it was clear that he was hyperventilating. Maybe Tobirama was interpreting too much into it. But it seemed like Hikaku was fighting himself. 

“Alright.” Tobirama said finally, but Hikaku never relaxed properly after that.

Madara didn’t think it was right to demand a full report of Hikaku when he was still injured. Whatever he had found in the borderlands didn’t seem time critical enough for it, or Hikaku, the hard-working devil he was, would’ve crawled from the infirmary to his office. 

He visited him often. What was the worst about it all was the fact that Hikaku seemed shaken and, at times, even changed. It was subtle. But Madara wasn’t a fool - he saw the little details. Tight smiles and unsure skitters of his eyes. He couldn’t quite help but feel that something was still terribly wrong, but whenever he tried to cut the topic with Hikaku, it was quickly deflected. 

Madara could demand the truth. He was Hikaku’s lord. But he was also his friend of over ten years. He wouldn’t force him to do anything until it was absolutely necessary. And perhaps it was simply the remnants of Hikaku’s injuries. The head medic nin had pulled him aside after one visit and told him in a low, concerning voice that Hikaku’s body and chakra showed signs of torture, partially with jutsu signatures that were entirely unfamiliar to them. It left such a bitter taste in Madara’s mouth that it kept him awake until the late hours. 

Strange seals, unfamiliar jutsus used for torture. He often thought about what they could possibly deal with, but none of the paths his thoughts followed led anywhere. He’d made a fair share of enemies in the past: he was an Uchiha, even when his father was still alive and he was simply the heir to the clan there were many, many people that swore vengeance on him. It only got worse when Tajima died and he took over leadership. 

His worst enemy until about half a year ago that would’ve been able to do things like these were the Senju. But those Madara definitely ruled out. Night after night he went back in the past, trying to remember. But there was no way to remember them all. And those that did come to mind, say, some bizarre encounters he did indeed have, wouldn’t have the means nor the skill. 

All this thinking led nowhere. He consulted Tobirama, who was incredibly helpful and gave him a few new thought patterns, but that was left without result as well.

“We simply can’t know if we don’t have new leads,” Tobirama finally said one evening, noticing Madara’s frustration.

“You’re right,” He agreed begrudgingly, “But I have this feeling that whoever has it out on me, or us for that matter, is multiple steps ahead. If we receive new leads, then it’s because the other wants us to have it.”

It was difficult to admit being the one with the disadvantage. But as powerful as Madara knew he was, he also knew when something was simply out of his hands. It happened rarely, in fact, he hadn’t experienced inferiority on this level ever besides when fighting with Senju Hashirama. But he thought himself to be insightful enough, to be with enough battle knowledge, to acknowledge when he was in a bad position. 

“Do you fear for your life?” Tobirama asked and Madara noticed how his husband straightened, as if ready to throw himself in front of him again. 

“No.” Madara answered decisively. He never feared for his own life. 

Only for the life of others, but he never mentioned that. Instead he took to kissing Tobirama with all the passion he had. 

Unsettlingly, everything fell into its normal place again.

Hikaku had been released from the infirmary two days before. The five Uchiha that had died on Hikaku’s mission were cremated shortly after the bodies were retrieved. Madara attended their funeral with Tobirama, who, with a face hard as iron, looked into the flames - griefing in his own right, Madara realized. 

They had taken to going out together often in the past weeks, strolling through the compound and talking to the Uchiha clan members. There was still little apprehensiveness within the common folk, but as Tobirama had been living with them for months now and therefore them seeing him often, stormy waves had settled. Madara knew there were still those who regarded him with disdain: especially the families of those directly involved in the mob incident. But he always knew how to handle it well. And ever since Tobirama had come up with a simple suiton jutsu that functioned as water supply for the fields and wells, improving the previous method, which many clan members greatly appreciated - he was gaining favor, slowly but surely. 

The scent of lavender hung thickly in the air. Madara couldn’t help but be reminded of the time shortly before the negotiations with the Senju - a time of uncertainty and wariness. It wasn’t quite the same now, as he watched Tobirama’s side profile. He had a wonderful husband now that was a great support to him. But he couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling. 

He only noticed after the fire’s had burned down to steadily glowing embers, sparks of hot ash flying in the air, that Hikaku hadn’t been at the funeral.

A day after the funerals, the sun had already gone down, he was in his office talking with Izuna. Tobirama was likely in the library, as he suspected. Or had he gone out? They were talking about possible theories as to who could be the true perpetrator of the assassination attempt. There had been very few conversation pieces in recent times except for that. Izuna wasn’t the strategist as Tobirama was, but that didn’t quite mean that he had nothing of worth to contribute.

His otouto wasn’t dumb - he was made out off instinct, which often helped. 

“And you say that it was all just too–” Izuna waved his hand, “–sloppy for that crook to be the actual mastermind?”

“Definitely. That man wouldn’t have had the skill, he was, as said before, just a low level criminal.”

“Hm,” Izuna grumbled, scratching his neck, “Do you have any other idea as to–”

A loud crash disrupted his younger brother. It sounded as if something had broken through the main door - loud steps were closing in towards his office, someone was running. 

Madara stood immediately, his hand finding a kunai that he always carried. Izuna did the same, his expression hardening, his eyes morphing into the sharingan. Not soon after, the tatami door was violently ripped open.

Hikaku practically fell into the room, landing on the floor and grunting in pain. 

“Hikaku?!” Madara exclaimed, but then his advisor and friend looked up. 

He was sickly pale even though days before, as he was released from the infirmary, he’d been looking healthy again. His skin was sheening from sweat, his eyes wide open and panicked - he was shaking violently and curling up, then writhing in pain the next, groaning. As if he was trying to hold himself back at all cost. 

“Madara- sama! ” Hikaku exclaimed and Madara’s name was still spoken normally like Hikaku usually talked, but the honorary suffix sounded distorted, dark, inhuman. 

“Please, please! I’m trying to fight it! But I’m too weak, it led me here, this parasite!” He choked and Madara could only watch on in horror, “It had taken over my body , it’s inside of me! Madara-sama, I don’t know its intentions but I can feel it in my brain, its commanding me, c-c-” 

Hikaku’s eyes rolled back as he writhed even harder and as Madara activated his sharingan - a pitchblack substance began running down his nose, ears, mouth, slowly and thickly like molasses. It seemed devoid of any light, any color - a true black.

“What is happening?!” Izuna yelled, throwing a hurried gaze towards Madara.

“Kami, I don’t know!” Madara exclaimed as Hikaku gurgled, choking. He realized, horrified, that even with his sharingan he didn’t know what the black substance was.

The dark form had stopped coming from Hikaku’s orifices, leaving his advisor and friend unconscious on the floor. It was moving on its own, upright, forming–

A body. A dark, pitch black body with no mouth, no distinguishing features except for what seemed to be two piercingly yellow, unsettling eyes. It moved like it was humanoid, but there was nothing human about it, Madara knew immediately. His mind was racing - what was this?! Suddenly he felt foolish holding the kunai: realizing instinctively that blades probably wouldn’t hurt this creature. Its head cocked to the side, staring at Madara.

“Son of Indra,” It spoke, even without a mouth. It was the same distorted, inhuman voice that had plagued Hikaku only moments before, “We meet, finally.”

Madara frowned hard, his stance shifting as he was ready to attack at any minute. He didn’t know any Indra in his family.

“Who are you?! What have you done to Hikaku?” He demanded. 

“Who I am is insignificant. As to your… subordinate. I have only borrowed his body for a bit.” The creature answered, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Disgusting,” Madara spat furiously, “What do you want?! You’re the one behind my assassination attempt, aren’t you?!”

“It was only necessary. I never had any intention to kill you, son of Indra. I only needed your attention… and a vessel, to get close to you.” The creature shifted a little, Madara twitched.

“I only came to warn you, son of Indra. Your path is of doom if you continue your marriage. The ideal future is endangered, should you stay with Senju Tobirama.” 

Madara scoffed. “The ideal future? Your ideal future, aren’t I correct?” 

The creature hissed, demeanor shifting even though it had no expression. The mood fell further. 

“Do not disregard my warnings, you foolish man. Senju Tobirama is not what he seems. Look into the pockets of your lovesick subordinate and you will know the truth I provided him with. I–”

Whatever it wanted to say, it was interrupted as a whirl in the space in front of it opened up, sucking it in fast. “What are you doi–” It exclaimed, actually sounding panicked, before it vanished completely. In its place a scroll fell to the ground, clattering loudly against the wooden floor. 

Madara snapped his head towards Izuna, who had his hand lifted into a sealing jutsu motion. He was breathing heavily, as he seemingly used a lot of strength for the sealing.

“Izuna…” Madara said, astonished. 

Izuna’s face was scrunched up, frowning deeply, as he looked at the scroll on the ground. “Whatever that was… It pissed me off.” He spat.

Madara exhaled, tension bleeding off of him, as he hurried towards Hikaku who was still lying motionlessly on the ground. He pressed his fingers into his neck, to his relief still feeling a pulse. “Where did you learn that type of sealing? I didn’t take you for a seal master, otouto…”

Izuna licked his lips. He looked properly exhausted. “Tobirama and I have been spending a lot of time training recently. He said I have a talent for sealing and was so kind as to show me this advanced sealing jutsu he invented. I blew it all the time before, but I managed to do it just now.” 

A silence fell over them. They both still couldn’t quite believe what had happened. 

“Kami, what was that? ” Izuna said finally, after Madara had sent for a medic nin to look after Hikaku. 

“If I only knew. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Madara uttered, still confused, “The things it said about Tobirama…”

“Don’t you think it was meddling? Trying to break you two apart? ‘Ideal future’ my ass, it seemed hellishly manipulative to me.” Izuna said. 

Madara regarded his brother. Again, Izuna seemed to think very intuitively. But what he said wasn’t wrong - still, what the creature said got Madara thinking. He started patting down Hikaku’s pockets, when he felt the outlines of a scroll. Quickly, he pulled it out, shoving it into his yukata. 

“Izuna, do you think you could get the sealed creature toward the clan vaults? Highest security. I don’t think I ever want to see it again.” 

Izuna only nodded. Shortly after he left the medic nins came and retrieved Hikaku, but not before Madara roughly explained what had happened. He left the creature out of the short story. 

An hour of chaos and everything died down, his office was empty and dark except for flickering candles. 

Only now he sat down at his desk, pulling out the scroll that Hikaku had hidden in his pocket, carefully stored away. With closer inspection there was no mistake: It was a Senju scroll, with clan engravement and everything and, as it seemed, of high importance. Complicated seals that had been in place to prevent others from reading had already been broken. A top secret scroll? He shouldn’t read it, Madara knew, but curiosity got the better of him. 

Slowly, he began unrolling it, reading the first few words.

The Senju clan’s truest protectors - The Senju Shadows

Only a select few are suitable to be a Shadow.

…

Only those willing to die for the clan, without uttering a word, are a Shadow.

…

Only those willing to kill whoever necessary, are a Shadow. 

…

Only those skilled enough, only those who know how to stay hidden, are a Shadow. A Senju Shadow truly is never more than a shadow. 

… 

The Senju Shadows are assassins, spies and thieves for their clan and they ought to never know anything else. 

…

Once a Shadow, always a Shadow, shouldn’t the clan head otherwise specify. 

…

Only the clan head can release a Shadow from their responsibilities. Anything else is considered treason towards the Senju clan. 

…

There are three Shadow groups made up of seven members each: a leader, six soldiers. Team Treetop, Team Treetrunk, and finally, the most skilled Shadows in Team Root. 

…

Leader of Team Treetop: Senju Junpei

Leader of Team Treetrunk: Senju Haruka

Leader of Team Root: Senju Tobirama

And with that: clarity. Everything fell into place - unanswered questions resolved themselves. Everything made sense. He knew now who Izuna’s assassin was. And as the assassin was a sensor, there was no way he hadn’t immediately known when he’d met Izuna. A thick fog lifted. And instead of it the overwhelming, blinding red of an unadulterated, indescribable rage blinded Madara’s vision. 

Red,

Red,

Red,

Rage.

Tobirama knew that this day would come. He’d never been quite the fool: secrets never were secrets for long in a world like this and he had never been one of the lucky ones that got away with their heinous crimes, no matter how hard he always tried. It always came back to him, one way or another. The acute, abstract pain of consequence, even if it wasn’t physical , has always been something he had to live with as a shinobi, albeit it being incredibly difficult to him. He had always been fragile that way - ironic, he mused sometimes, considering how metaphorically bloody his hands were.

He just thought that he’d have at least a little bit of time. A little more time of happiness. 

But Tobirama knew that Madara knew as soon as the tatami door ripped apart violently, Madara appeared in rage beyond anything Tobirama had seen in a human - a demon come alive with an anger from beyond the physical realm. He couldn’t help his instincts and he fell back on his elbows. 

“YOU!” Madara raged, his mouth wide, teeth clenching, “How could you?!”

And then within seconds he was on him, rough hands grabbing the fabric of his obi and pressing him down on the hard floor. Tobirama lifted his hands, to fend off what was possibly to come.

“You betrayed me! All this time–” Madara was so angry he couldn’t even speak properly, his loud voice piercing sharply into Tobirama’s ears, “All this time you knew! You knew! And you live here in false innocence, playing me a fool! I trusted you!”

Tobirama grunted in pain as Madara had lifted him by the grip on his clothing and pressing him down again, causing his head to knock on the floor. 

“You knew you were the one that almost killed Izuna!” Madara roared, “My little brother, my everything!” He was so close he could feel the other’s warm breath. 

“You almost took him from me and you knew! YOU KNEW!” His voice was thick and distorted in rage.

And it sounded so beyond everything, beyond sanity and reason - deranged even - that Tobirama thought that this would be it. Nothing came above Izuna to Madara. Izuna was his life’s center. His sun. Of course he didn’t know at the time: Izuna had just been one nameless Uchiha like the many, many others he had killed. But that was war, wasn’t it? You never knew whose life was on your consciousness and what family you’d ripped apart because of it. Consequences. It all came back around - the loop of crimes. Tobirama awaited his death and thought it fair, when Madara suddenly let go of him.

Still looming closely above him, his hands shook violently as they hovered at Tobirama’s throat, as if to squeeze at any moment.

“I promised myself,” He said breathlessly and fast, voice now more quiet and unstable, “To kill whoever Senju tried to murder my outoto.” 

His hands still shook, but never moved closer to Tobirama, as if he was fighting an internal battle - one side of him wanting to mercilessly choke Tobirama to death, the other holding him back with all its might. 

“And now–” Tobirama’s gaze was so intent on these hands that would decide his life or death, “And now–”

Tobirama waited for violence - it never came. The hands moved away, lifted. Tobirama looked up to see Madara staring at his own hands, incredulously, shocked, pained. 

“I can’t.” He said finality and truth in his words that seemed to physically hurt him. 

Tobirama shifted from under him quickly, perhaps for his own safety, but to also take his husband’s hands into his own - the mighty battle had been decided and one side had definitely won. Madara was breathing heavily, shakiness in every drag as emotions shook his body. Tobirama could barely imagine what was going on inside of him now.

“Madara.” He said, quietly. 

Madara looked up, face distorted in an unusual show of raw, emotional pain. Tobirama was shaken to see that Madara’s eyes were glistening: tears swimming in them, making them look like dark, deep pools of sorrow. He held Tobirama’s gaze with a Uchiha-like stubbornness, even though he cried, openly, for the first time since  Tobirama knew him.

“Amaterasu,” Madara whispered and looked at Tobirama like he recognized something or someone else in him, “I always knew you’d come to collect my debt…” His face distorted once again and it made Tobirama’s heart clench, “But like this?”

With that he bowed over, into Tobirama’s arms, face buried into his chest and hidden by the mane of black hair. Tobirama held him tight, searching for words. When they came, they came in clarity. 

“I never told you because I was afraid. Justifiably afraid. I knew you'd kill me if I ever told you and so I never did. For that I am sorry and for anything else I am too. But at the time, when it happened, I never knew he was your brother. He was just another Uchiha, like so many.” Tobirama said quietly as Madara’s body shook in his embrace. “It was war, Madara. It didn’t matter then like it matters now. War is pain and war means losing loved ones: I lost my little brothers to Uchiha. I’m not trying to justify what I did. I cannot. But I ask you this: Can you blame me now for what I did in the war? Carry over hurt into reconciliation that we tried to heal through this peace?”

Silence followed in which he collected his thoughts. He leaned even closer to his husband, his body cradling the one next him - they were so close now that he didn’t need to raise his voice above a whisper. 

“You once told me that you will ask a lot of me. When I responded that I had nothing more to give, that I gave everything–” Tobirama’s hand now found Madara’s hair, stroking it softly, “You said that you will ask me to give even more. I will now ask even more of you, too, Madara.”

He lifted him so that he could see his face: Madara’s usual proud and detached demeanor was now in a mask of pain and sadness - his cheeks glistening from tears. Tobirama’s hands cupped them and wiped away the fresh tears that were still falling freely.

“I will ask you for forgiveness.” Tobirama said, voice stable and determined, “After all that has happened I think I can demand this.” 

He placed a soft kiss of salty, wet lips and Madara’s shaky hands found his. It seemed like a long time passed before they broke apart, Madara’s dark eyes moving over Tobirama’s face like they had so many times before.

“I love you,” He choked, “Amaterasu knows I love you.”

Tobirama tried not to break apart on these words as he finally let go: 

“Then trust that I love you, too.”

Chapter Text

Beautiful artwork of Tobirama inspired by this fic, created by the lovely ashrazz! <3

XVI.

Forgiveness was never an easy thing to give, in its whole concept.  

A part of forgiveness meant letting go - of resentment and hate and hurt - towards someone who was the exact cause of these hard and consuming feelings. There were people that said that by forgiving someone, you’d be the bigger person. The one with the flawless morale in this entangled constellation. But Madara always thought that this was only something those said that had never really been hurt in their life. And so he’d never been much of a forgiving person. 

But that was before everything. Before he’d fallen in love with Tobirama, before he found out that he’d actually been the one to almost kill Izuna. Before… before…

He was a different person then, Madara realized, only half a year ago. Thinking he’d never change, that his personality was something set in stone - it was quite foolish, now that he reflected on it. A part of him wanted to keep the promise he’d made to himself all those months ago: that he’d get vengeance on whoever tried to kill his otouto. Just because things were different it didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt terribly. Betrayal. Lies, even when they were by omission. But he couldn’t now, he couldn’t.

He loved Tobirama too much.

Forgiveness. 

They held onto each other for a long time that evening - Madara unashamed that he cried. Uchiha felt strongly, he’d just never given into the urge. And if he was honest with himself, he’d never felt this much in general up until he met Tobirama. 

He did think it was fate. Amaterasu’s will: he’d taken too many liberties, relied on her far too often without thanking her properly. He assumed he was a good warrior, walking for her, fighting for her, but he needed a lesson on thankfulness. Humility. And she gifted him Tobirama. A reward and a lesson united in a person - his shining jewel and bane of his heart in one. Love.

Love. Madara never truly realized what it meant. And how could he, if he never experienced it? But it all changed, so drastically even - he knew exactly what love was now. Not that he would’ve been able to accurately describe it. When he told Tobirama that not even the greatest poets could describe what he felt for him, he meant it. But if something was able to come close…

The world could burn and it wouldn’t matter, as long as he had Tobirama at his side.

Tobirama was aware that he’d have to be the one to tell Izuna. 

That it all had turned out this way was something he still couldn’t quite comprehend. He’d been so sure that if this secret would ever be lifted that it would be his death sentence. And even in the more positive scenarios that he dared to imagine in his head he wouldn’t come out this unscathed. But he actually got to keep. Keep happiness, keep his life.

Keep Madara.

Even if it was a work in progress. Even if they were both flawed, trying to undo each other's flaws and mistakes. They'd do it somehow - the worst was past them, wasn't it? 

Tobirama had nothing more to hide and it was incredibly relieving. Whatever was to come now, he knew he’d manage. After every adversary came gratification, he just had to be patient enough. He’d deal with Izuna’s wrath willingly enough. 

They’d grown closer ever since they’d decided to put aside their conflict - they trained together often, Tobirama finding Izuna’s style in fighting refreshing. Would this put another rift in between them? He feared it would, but he would not be able to do anything about it, demanding it not to be so. He was the one responsible after all. 

Izuna had been busy looking for remaining dirt the creature had left. Madara had told Tobirama all about it, perfectly honest in retelling what had happened that evening before he found the scroll with the Senju secret. The one that revealed Tobirama’s prior occupation within the clan - a quick letter to Hashirama and it became clear the scroll had been stolen weeks prior. No doubt the creature’s doing. Tobirama helped put further seals onto the scroll in which Izuna had caught it -  he gave his best with the seals, not really wanting to think about what would happen if it ever got out. 

Izuna looked relaxed over a cup of tea, enjoying the rays of the sun on the deck towards the gardens. He acknowledged Tobirama, who stood there, not quite daring to join him. 

“Izuna.” 

“Hm?”

“I have to confess something to you.” He admitted. 

Izuna seemed unsure, as if he hadn’t expected Tobirama to say this. “...okay.”

And so Tobirama told him, soberly, without any euphemism. What he had been doing before the negotiations, what role he played in the war. That he’d been the one Izuna had been engaged in a fight with, the one to almost kill him. That he knew, immediately upon feeling Izuna’s chakra again and keeping quiet about it. And after Tobirama finished there was a silence falling in between them. 

Izuna was looking up at him, motionless, his face set in a faint frown. As if he didn’t understand. But then, finally, he spoke.

“It was war. What were you supposed to do? If you wouldn’t have tried to kill me, I would’ve tried to kill you. ”

And that was that. Nothing more. With Izuna, everything was simple, even if it wasn’t - nowhere this sentiment was truer than in this moment. Once the young Uchiha had made up his mind, there was little that seemed to be able to change it. Again Tobirama is reminded how different Izuna and Madara were.

“Sit down, I still have some tea left for you, I think.”

Tobirama, gratefully and with the feeling of a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, joined him.

Insects were buzzing, dragonflies hovering over the gently tumbling water of the small stream. The curling surface reflected flaming reds, endearing pinks of the late evening sun - it would be dark within the next hour. A warm wind, heated by the sun’s daily effort, tugged gently at the reeds growing along the shore lines. 

Hikaku was standing there, by the small stream where they once held hands, mesmerized by the water’s display, but looking a little lost. Alone. Tobirama joined him. 

And still he smiled upon seeing Tobirama, purely and untarnished. He was pale and his movements betrayed the weak constitution of his body. The strength he once had would never quite return, an unspoken, bitter truth: the creature had taken a lot when leaving his body. 

“Enjoying the evening?” Tobirama asked. 

It was a miracle that he recovered at all, after something alien had parasitically lived inside of him for almost a week, nourishing from his body, his chakra. Hikaku nodded in response.

“Quite.” He answered honestly. 

They stood there together, not speaking a word, letting nature fill in the silence. 

“I’m sorry,” Tobirama said after a while, “For everything that has happened.”

Hikaku turned toward him, frowning. He looked youthful then, just like Tobirama - not like the serious advisor that he was.

“None of it was your fault,” He said, “I made my own decisions. Whatever their motivation was, I still made them.”

Tobirama still felt responsible somehow, but didn’t say it. Hikaku seemed determined in his own faults. A short silence, then: “I still appreciate you saying it, Tobirama-sama.” Hikaku uttered quietly, “Even if only I am to blame.”

“You acted on command. You followed Madara’s orders.” Tobirama pointed out and Hikaku shrugged at that.

“Yes, naturally, but…” There was something the other wanted to say, but didn’t. Tobirama didn’t push.

“I’m glad this thing is gone,” Hikaku’s eyes wandered over the water, distant. There was little power to his imagination as to what it might feel like to not be the master of himself - to struggle against a malevolent parasite. 

“It surprised my party and I in the borderlands. Even in its weakened state it managed to overwhelm us. It took a hold on me, fed from me.” Hikaku suddenly huffed out a short laugh, “It’s ironic that without it, I probably wouldn’t have survived my injuries. It kept me alive, for the purpose of getting close to Madara-sama.”

Tobirama didn’t comment, knowing instinctively not to interrupt whatever Hikaku wanted to say. They were friends, still. Friends listened to each other. 

“I tried to fight it so hard. With all that I could. I was still too weak.” A small butterfly crossed their vision, “I heard its thoughts, sometimes. Not clearly enough to know the creature’s whole scheme, but enough to understand anyways.”

He turned to Tobirama again, past concern, stress written on his features as he recalled what had been in his mind. “That you and Madara-sama married was ruining its plans for an ‘ideal future’. It wanted to break you two apart, horrifically, so that Madara-sama would kill you in rage and fall into the Curse of Hatred.”

A wounded sound ripped from Tobirama’s throat. Madara had indeed been terribly angry and if their relationship had been any worse than it had been that evening… Tobirama was sure that Madara wouldn’t have hesitated to kill him. But intentionally wanting to trigger the Curse of Hatred in Madara? Little surpassed something like that in cruelty. Whatever the ‘ideal future’ was to the vile creature: it couldn’t have been anything benevolent for mankind.  

“It accounted for so many things,” Hikaku frowned deeply, his mouth morphing into a bitter snarl, “Your isolation here. Using Senju seals for its puppets. Informing your brother of your circumstances here. Madara’s love for his brother and that you almost killed Izuna-sama before the negotiations. It had everything in place to play both clans against each other, to throw the seed of hatred again. But it seemingly never expected that you two would grow to feel for each other.”

And how could a creature like that account for it, if even Tobirama would’ve never thought that it would happen? At the very beginning of it all, sunken in a pit of hopelessness, despair and homesickness, he had dared to dream, to hope. For a future without cruelty, where’d be treated neutrally and left to be by himself with his books and perhaps, if he was lucky, his research. That had been his ideal then: the best case scenario. The best that he could’ve possibly hoped for. 

Now he was impossibly in love, so desperately, happily in love and his love was requited with equal intensity, if not more. As it was Uchiha Madara and he never did things half way. Tobirama would’ve never thought he could be this happy. But he was. 

A warmth filled his chest and, despite the dark topic of conversation, he couldn’t help but smile faintly. 

“But we did.” He said finally.

Hikaku inclined his head a little, shying from Tobirama’s gaze - a faint display of emotions on his face. “Indeed.”

Tobirama looked at his friend, the one that had been on his side all along, even when he was an enemy on home territory. Hikaku had never doubted his intentions, not even once. Would his husband have been any other than Uchiha Madara, Tobirama reflected, there was little doubt that his love would’ve fallen towards this kind hearted, earnest man. 

“It was never meant to be, Hikaku-san.” He said quietly, if not apologetically. 

Hikaku shook his head, a little, bitter smile shortly playing on his lips before vanishing. “No, you’re right. I always knew that.” He inhaled deeply, lifting his head up high and seeking Tobirama’s gaze.

“I love you,” He confessed, “I can’t help it. I do not, in any way, want to hold you responsible, Tobirama-sama. Only know my feelings are true.”

Tobirama smiled slightly. “I know they are. You carried a scroll of my crimes, knowing what was written in it. And kept it to yourself. I–” He huffed, lacking words and decided on something simple, “Thank you, Hikaku-san.”

Tobirama placed his hands on Hikaku’s shoulders, leaning closer and pecking a short kiss on the other’s cheeks before stepping back. “In any other world, it would’ve been you.”

The words were something final: a decision made. They would remain friends, at least Tobirama hoped, for as long as Hikaku would want to. The other trailed his hand where Tobirama placed the kiss, a soft gaze his only response. 

Hashirama came for a surprise visit the following day. Tobirama had been busying himself with a new project when an Uchiha working in the household alerted him to his brother’s presence. 

It seemed that Madara and Hashirama had come to be on friendly terms again, otherwise his brother wouldn’t have stood in the middle of the Uchiha compound, curiously looking around like a small child discovering something new. Tobirama remembered when he arrived first at the compound, heavy with sorrow, in the depths of the winter. Everything had looked uninviting and hard then, covered in snow and devoid of any green - now the compound was presenting itself in all its glory, with stunning architecture and blooming trees. Hashirama looked foreign and yet so right in the midst of it all. 

“Anija!” Tobirama exclaimed and couldn’t help it. He rushed forward, into the arms of his older brother who barely managed to hold him.

“Oof–” Hashirama only emitted, as Tobirama held tight. It had been such a long time since they properly met each other, since he was hugging Hashirama without anything overshadowing the moment. 

“What are you doing here? I thought you wanted to come with Mito some day?” Tobirama questioned, pulling back. 

He saw, he saw. Everything about Hashirama was new and yet old at the same time. His deep brown hair, his kind eyes, tan skin - and the playful smile curling at his lips. He looked exactly right: how Tobirama always imagined him to look like. 

“I was in the area,” Hashirama laughed and Tobirama knew he was lying, “I haven’t seen you in so long, Tobira. I’ve missed your birthday. And after you wrote to me, that you healed your sight… I simply couldn’t stay away. I wanted to celebrate with you.” 

Tobirama felt himself beam. “How long are you staying? Does Madara know?”

“Only one night, I have to go back tomorrow. As much as it pains me, I cannot leave clan business for too long. I’ve written Madara beforehand, I wanted to surprise you.” He explained, “You can see now? Truly?”

“I see you clearly in front of me. With some help from Madara I was able to fulfill the jutsu, now my eyes feed from the chakra in my tattoos.” Tobirama said, while pulling at Hashirama to come inside of the house. 

“Ah, my amazing baby brother. You’ve always been a genius.” Hashirama said fondly and Tobirama, a little overcome by the compliment, only flushed happily. 

It was so nice to see him this happy, Madara thought, that it made him happy in return.

Tobirama was sitting at the low, round table, along with Hashirama and Izuna, the two bickering in between each other. 

“You know, I’ve never seen you up close.” Izuna said, which made Hashirama laugh. 

“You’re seeing me now.” 

Tobirama’s face was bright and open, his eyes tracking both Izuna and his brother. Madara had been worried at first, Hashirama and him had only exchanged letters after what had happened weeks prior and at the beginning their conversation was still a little stiff. But they warmed up again over the course of the evening. 

Sometimes he risked a look into what was about half a year ago. He never really liked to, every memory of his tainted with had he done, or, more accurately, not done. They didn’t know each other then as they did now, Madara blatantly overlooking what Tobirama’s expressions, carefully chosen words meant. It was evident to him now, as if he’d been the one gifted with a newly gained sight:

He hurt him terribly. 

How could he ever hold on to vengeance against Tobirama for almost killing Izuna, when he had been killing Tobirama himself, day after day, little by little. Killing his spirit, his soul. In a way, it was all even - but it certainly didn’t feel that way. Now Madara was sure he was the one indebted to Tobirama.

He’d do everything to make it right, if Tobirama let him. It was quite the relief to hear him whisper his tearful confession back and after Madara had calmed from his anger there was hope: that Tobirama would let him make it right. 

Tobirama had just unwrapped Hashirama’s present for his belated birthday. A beautiful book on sealing jutsus, apparently from the Senju library. “We can go without it.” Hashirama explained, “It’s yours now.” 

He’d thanked his brother thoroughly, when he turned his attention to Madara’s present. Madara had put thought into it: Tobirama wasn’t one for jewelry and riches and already had full access to the Uchiha library. So he opted for sentimentality. 

Tobirama ripped the paper apart and with fascination lifted up a tea cup, engraved with a small, black bird. He twirled it in the afternoon light, smiling lightly.

Hashirama made his way back at noon the next day, but not without hugging his brother tightly, promising to bring Mito the next time he should visit, after she had given birth. 

After a short walk through the compound Tobirama entered the main house again, almost immediately and softly ambushed by Madara, who slung his arms around his waist, trailing kisses along his jaw. 

“I thought he’d never leave you be,” He murmured.

“He’s my brother, I haven’t seen him in weeks, Madara.” Tobirama pointed out, but felt indulgent, tilting his head for Madara to get better access. Latter only hummed, neither agreeing or disagreeing. 

They stumbled toward their shared bedroom this way, entangled deeply with each other, exchanging kisses and caresses until Tobirama was spread out on the futon, Madara above him. 

“My heart,” He whispered. Madara had little words whenever they got like this and somehow Tobirama liked it, knowing that he was the one to rob this great shinobi of his language. He slung his arms around Madara’s neck, pulling him closer. 

“Come on, Madara. Take me, please.” He pleaded, edging the other on. Tobirama always knew how to push the right buttons. 

Madara prepared him thoroughly with one, two, three slick fingers and Tobirama squirmed beneath him, impatiently - Madara didn’t seem to be able to stop touching his body when he finally pushed himself in. Both moaning breathlessly there soon was no holding back. Skin against skin, exclaims of pleasure and whispered worship. Every touch they gifted each other seemed purposeful, born out of love. Tobirama came shortly after Madara spilled inside of him, humming in deep satisfaction. 

“I do want a bath now, though.” He said and Madara laughed, a delightful sound with his dark voice, Tobirama thought. 

“I will prepare it, my heart.”

They bathed each other, cleaning themselves - it was intimate and Tobirama didn’t think he’d ever experienced anything close to it in his life. This shared vulnerability and rawness was rare amongst hardened shinobi and he enjoyed every minute of it. 

In fresh clothing, some time afterwards, they sat next to each other on the deck. The garden was in wild bloom, bees buzzing in the air, small animals rustling in the bushes. The intense sun warmed Tobirama’s skin and he closed his eyes - waiting in silence for a couple of minutes before hearing it. 

The blackbird sang, undeterred and proudly. And now that Tobirama thought about it, even though none of its kind would ever respond, the bird was by far not alone in these gardens. 

Tobirama sighed, letting his eyes remain closed, as he leaned against Madara's strong shoulder. The other took his hand, softly caressing. 

Spring was over. Summer began.